Observations of a Lodger
by shedoc
Summary: continuing the tradition of the Observations series. Set prior to Wife, a look at the early years of Holmes and Watson's friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

First Notice

I don't believe I've ever met a man quite like him. A professional with no practice, a soldier with no regimental comrades, and an extrovert without friends: my new fellow lodger sits quietly in his corner of our mutual sitting room and scribbles away at letters and his journals.

That is, of course, on the days that I notice his descent from his room at the top of the house. Since coming to these rooms my own practice seems to be gaining speed. I have been afoot a great deal more than I ever was in Montague Street; not because I was avoiding the unappealing state of my lodgings for a change. The new landlady is even stricter than my last, but contrarily also much more accommodating. She is quite annoyed that I don't eat to a regular schedule, and had it not been for her mutterings I would have missed a very valuable insight into my new lodger's character.

In the three weeks that we have been here, he has missed meals eight times, remaining in his room instead. Not unusual for myself, in fact compared to me he is a regular trencherman, however the man is thin enough as it is, and as a doctor is surely aware of the affect that he is having on his own health. More than once I have encountered my new landlady standing at the foot of the stairs leading to his room, an indecisive look upon her face.

She has yet to ascend, having realised, as I did, that the man will brook no interference in his slow recovery; the veterans pride is quite fierce. I offer as an example of this an occurrence in the first few days of our residence, when I believe I mentioned the inconvenience of having packing boxes around the sitting room. I emerged from my room the next morning to discover that the man had been up, apparently all night, unpacking. I believe that was the first time he missed a meal. I was quick to realise that to mention a thing to my fellow lodger was to have him do it, provided it was within his purview. I know myself well enough to know that I could quickly become accustomed to taking shameless advantage of this; let us hope that he rapidly recovers his spine from wherever it has been misplaced or he will be thoroughly under my thumb in no time at all. Should his nerve be irrevocably shattered it may well be better that I find a new lodger, one that will not allow me to take such liberties.

He receives no visitors, no correspondence is delivered to his side of the table, and his health precludes him from going out in the cold and damp air. We will soon be storm bound as a snow front is undoubtedly moving in, making the slick pavements without an impassable obstacle for a crippled soldier. Let us hope that his 'bull pup' and my dumps don't encounter each other when we have no where to retreat to.

All in all, things could be worse in my new rooms. I do wish I'd known that the veteran was such a deucedly dull fellow when I'd agreed to split these rooms with him. If one must be forced into Society, that Society should at least offer _some_ points of interest.

0o0o0o0


	2. Chapter 2

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Practice Makes Perfect

I have witnessed the most unusual consultation. My new lodger is a doctor, introduced by a fellow medico and mutual acquaintance with the annoying habit of meddling in his fellow's lives in an effort to arrange them better. Stamford means well enough, but his assistance is most unwanted, especially in the dissection halls.

My fellow lodger has lost colour, if that is possible. It was evident to me that his tropical tan was hiding a shocking pallor – in the last month of our acquaintance he has gone from brown to a faded sort of yellow. He has yet to gain any weight, to our landlady's disgust, though he has not skipped a meal all week. I have gained half a stone, to _my_ disgust, and shall be frequenting my old gymnasium more frequently. If this keeps up I will shortly resemble my elder brother!

He is slow on the stairs, and uses a heavy cane to negotiate them, though he refuses to use it in front of myself or our landlady. We have established a routine that allows him to ascend or descend without a witness, which for me is a rare piece of tact indeed. I find that I count his steps, timing them as he takes them, and on the days when he is slower we are to have a sharp change in weather; he is more accurate than the barometer in that regard, though it costs him no little agony.

Stamford, noisy fellow that he is, burst in upon us as I was finishing my morning tea and my lodger his last piece of toast. Our uninvited and unexpected visitor exclaimed over our late morning meal, the layout of our rooms, the fact that we were still sharing together and the terrible weather all in what appeared to be the space of a minute, needing no interaction on either of our parts and depriving the room of a great deal of oxygen, not to mention peace. My new flatmate met my eyes with a wry and expressive glance before kicking a chair out with his good foot and wielding the almost empty teapot.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Stamford?" the former soldier asked in a mild tone. Stamford settled at once, seating himself quietly and ceasing his alarming chatter. I was very interested to see that where there had once been a pained and proud cripple lingering over an unwanted meal, now there was a sharp eyed and steady presence, one with a very fortunate and sobering effect on our overly gregarious mutual acquaintance.

"I've come to you with a case," Stamford announced to the table at large. As I had not informed him that I was establishing myself as the only consulting detective in England, it was no great leap to deduce that the man planned on hauling my still weak and crippled roommate out into inclement weather to see to the ills of another. Really, you'd think that a doctor would know better.

"Oh?" the other man's voice sharpened. Previously dull eyes took on a quick light of intelligence, and Stamford was raked with a quick look that confirmed his state of health. This all took place in the space of a breath: I began to think that when returned to full health the man may become someone worth knowing.

"Yes, we're in dire need of you at St Bart's," Stamford sighed, "You remember the underclassmen two years below us the year we graduated?"

"Vividly," the ex-soldier snorted: an unattractive sound that he would never have made if he'd remembered my presence at the table. As it was I may as well have been merged with the wallpaper, "I was very nearly expelled over them."

"Well they've been reincarnated," Stamford sighed, "We're in uproar, the specialists are refusing to work with them, several families of various patients are threatening legal action and if we're to avoid a scandal we need you and your skills."

"Stamford…" my fellow lodger shook his head, "I'm in no fit state to practice. Indeed, I don't even know if I can manage to regain the full use of my left arm as it is. I may never be a surgeon again."

In anyone else the statements would have been tinged with pity and woe. In my fellow lodger they were calm statements of fact, accepted by the man uttering them, though they must have cost him something to own. He showed none of that though, and my interest in him increased.

"Actually, old chap, I thought of that," the words almost made me cringe – coming from Stamford they were the most frightening in the Queen's English. "You'd make an excellent general practitioner, and the hospital is the ideal place to get your feet wet in that field, as it were. We could tailor your hours around your health for now, and increase them as you get better."

Stamford beamed at his fellow doctor much like a child expecting praise from a parent, apparently unaware of the monumentally tactless speech he'd just delivered. I watched, unabashedly curious, as the afore mentioned 'bull pup' strangled to death on its own leash. Only once his temper was under control did the veteran finish his cup of tea and lean on his stronger arm.

"I take it you have a schedule of some sort organised," there were warning signs in his tone, which even Stamford picked up on. The gormless grin disappeared from his face and he dug an envelope out of his pocket, handing it over. The papers enclosed were disinterred with a quick movement and the breakfast table became a council of war. There was a letter of request from the board of governors of the hospital itself included among them, and it was apparent that the offer contained within it was enough to tempt my fellow lodger from the empty solace of our rooms to the siren call of active practice.

Perhaps he would be more interesting now that he'd been woken up. It may well be that I owe Stamford a favour; not that I am at all inclined to thank him.

0o0o0o0


	3. Chapter 3

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

An Impromptu Lecture on Professional Behaviour

As a general rule, the dissecting rooms at St Bart's were peaceful places: not out of any inherent respect for the dead, but simply because they weren't frequented by large enough groups of people to make the sort of noise that was currently approaching the doors.

I had come to observe an autopsy, looking as always for further information to assist me in pursuing my chosen field. The surgeon in charge of the autopsy was well respected in his field, and was currently instructing two younger, and sadly squeamish, fellows in the fine art of wielding a scalpel. He had agreed to allow me to observe in lieu of paying my professional fees for resolving a small personal matter, provided I did not interrupt.

As the noise increased, the lead surgeon broke off his lecture with an impatient exclamation and put down his scalpel. The man was known for his temper, so the part of me that was not annoyed by the interruption was looking forward to the ensuing fireworks. Sadly, they never got off the ground as the doors at the far end of the room, which we could not see by virtue of our position, clattered open accompanied with a growled instruction to,

"Get in there!"

With a small shock I recognised the voice of my fellow lodger, though it was distorted by more temper than I had ever heard from the man. He had not sounded this cross when an accident involving my chemicals and his newly purchased novel had resulted in the destruction of said book before he'd had a chance to so much as read the first sentence. Evidently my companion recognised the voice as well, as he held up a hand and gestured sternly for silence. The doors thudded shut with ominous finality and feet ceased to scuttle on the cold floors upon which we stood.

"_Never_ in all my years of practice have I encountered such craven disregard for the tenets of our profession!" my flatmate declared in tones that raised the hair on my neck. The former soldier was most definitely at the forefront, jostling for prominence with the outraged tones of a man who is a healer by nature as well as profession.

"You have apparently failed to realise that it is a human being you are treating with your medicines and procedures, not a simple organism that had apparently gone awry! Humans are prone to frailties and compulsions that can have stronger hold over them than the medicines that we prescribe, or the procedures that we perform. I have seen men survive the most horrific wounds simply because they believed they could, and men die of the common cold because they were convinced they were afflicted with something fatal! You, sir, have no experience, enough arrogance to rival the gold reserve of Britain, and the perverse idea that because you are new to the profession that your teachers have nothing worthwhile to tell you! You seem to have forgotten that those men who are yet attempting to instruct you were once as you are now, green and untried. The difference is that _they_ had the intelligence to listen to what they were told and the wisdom to accrue experience _before_ attempting to overthrow years of established medical knowledge and prowess! You have just very nearly _killed_ your patient with your bull-headed arrogance, and if it weren't such a breach of professional ethics I'd hand you a thrashing that would teach you the error of your ways!"

"Now see here, Dr Watson, don't you think…" the young man on the end of the lecture had the foolishness to throw coal on the fire of my flatmates temper and in the corner of my eye I saw the lead surgeon clap a hand over his smile. He was clearly finding this highly entertaining, possibly because he recognised the young doctor being devastated by my flatmate. It was clear that he heartily approved of the dressing down, something that did not go unnoticed by his students to boot.

"_Yes I do think – the question is, do you?_" was the scalding reply, "What piece of medical wisdom, precisely, led you to administer to a patient with an already compromised ability to breathe a dose of _morphine?_"

"He was in pain from…"

"Morphine depresses respiration!" the incensed doctor heatedly interrupted, "Your dosage was _far_ too strong…"

"Clearly it wasn't as the man is still alive and no longer in pain!" the young voice cracked on the last note, defensiveness lacing his tone, "I judged…"

"That the morphine could alleviate the pain and ease him into a state where his breathing would also become less laboured, thus additionally easing his pain in a spiral," Dr Watson interrupted once more, his voice as cold and hard as the blade of a sword, "What you failed to take into account is that the man would have required higher and higher dosages to keep him in that state, resulting in addiction at best, death at worst. In fact, that type of treatment is only ever administered to terminal patients, to ease their last days. _Which you knew_!"

"I was going to add a dosage of cocaine…"

"Oh _brilliant_ idea young man," the sarcasm in that exclamation could have dissected the corpse beside us more effectively than any scalpel, "Double his burden of addiction, and enter him into a cycle of highs and lows that would cause internal damage to an already weakened system of organs _as well as_ causing damage to his mental health. Truly, that is an inspired plan of treatment. Why not just shoot him where he lays… I'm sure the patient would appreciate your compassion in ending his clearly worthless life."

"Worthless!" the younger doctor choked. Had I not been so disgusted by his slipshod thinking and faulty premises I would have felt some pity at the broken tone. Though I myself dabbled in the afore mentioned drugs, I was not ill nor in such dire straits that I couldn't leave the stimulus of the drugs when I so chose; this nameless patient would not be in any position to do so… provided, of course, that he survived the treatment.

"You clearly don't value his life, or depend upon his survival of your treatment plan. Should the man be lucky enough to ever be released from your imprisonment of him in this hospital he faces ruin in the form of his dual addictions. And what of his family? You'd see them on the street as well?"

"N-no!"

"Then perhaps you should have paid closer attention to your betters," the cool, implacable voice advised, "They could have told you that in order to see a patient through an illness such as this you must consider the whole person, not just the part of him that is ailing."

"I... I d-don't understand!" that last was almost a wail, and the two younger doctors with us shifted in sympathy. For myself, I was smugly aware that this entertaining interlude was merely serving to reinforce my long held suspicion of doctors and their cures. A heavy sigh echoed through the dissecting rooms and there was a scrape as a wooden stool was drawn out.

"Sit," the order was barked, but there was a slight thawing to the tone. A second stool joined the first and I could imagine the slight grimace of my roommate as he alleviated the strain on his wounded leg.

"Now, let us consider the case without attempting to murder our patient," the flat statement did not bode well for forgiveness in the near future, "Your patient has compromised his lungs quite badly, in an accident. He is suffering from damage to his ribs as well as having inhaled some rather noxious fumes. As a result his lungs are functioning sub normally, they are filling with congestion and he is suffering a not inconsiderable amount of pain. He is young, and before the accident was in good health. There is no prior history of lung disease, apart from the usual colds and winter sniffles. Are my facts correct?"

"Y-yes Dr Watson."

"He also has a young wife, who is devoted to him, present for the main portion of each day. He is also visited by his parents and his younger brother daily, and his married sister every other day. Is this also correct?"

"Yes sir."

"As I understand it, the young man simply needs time to recover, something that is in short supply due to the congestion. He is exhausted by the pain, which is further draining his resources and will only be alleviated by the lessening or removal of the congestion. Drugs are, as we already established, not the best way to manage this case."

"Then there's nothing we can do!"

"Asafœtida. Every two hours at first, then lengthening the intervals until his lungs are clear. The coughing will initially increase his pain, but his recovery will be the quicker for it. Making him cough every two hours to clear his lungs is labour intensive, of course, and the burden of doing so around the clock would drain the resources of the nursing staff to a dangerous point, which is where the young mans devoted family members come in. Organise a roster among them that will allow them to assist with the majority of the task, taking the time to teach them to do it properly _first_, and you will increase your patients chance at life. In addition, it will benefit the family to be actively contributing to his care, reducing the conflicts with nursing staff. I understand there have been several already, and they are increasing in frequency. Finally, the touch of someone who cares for you is often the best medicine in the world, something that we cannot replicate with all our drugs and remedies. Allowing the patients mother to put the poultices she has been preparing daily upon his bruises will soothe the patient and ease him into a deeper rest, which in return will rebuild his reserves of strength."

"But the poultices are… old home remedies!"

"My mother used those very same remedies, as do most mothers in the Empire," was the dry rejoinder, "They can't hurt, and _will_ help, if only because the patient and his mother _expect them to_."

"… Yes, Dr Watson," a very humble tone indeed.

"Finally, your conduct," the inexorable tone sharpened, "As a member of this profession you are seen, however erroneously, as a man of letters _and_ a gentleman. A certain decorum and deportment is expected of you in public _at all times_. If I _ever_ hear you speak in such a manner about a patient as I did today, even if it _is_ to a fellow doctor, you shall regret it! Doctors with poor morals have _no place_ in this world, and I will personally see to it that you never graduate to your chosen field. _Is that clear?_"

"Perfectly," the dry whisper echoed through the room with clarity.

"You are dismissed."

There was a set of rapid footsteps, a moment of silence and then a heavy sigh. From the sounds it was apparent that my fellow lodger was tidying away the stools, then the door thudded shut quietly behind him. A glance at the two young fellows beside me showed that every last word of that masterful lecture had been taken to heart. Really, I hadn't known the man had it within him!

"Here endeth the lesson," the senior surgeon murmured.

0o0o0o0


	4. Chapter 4

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Professional Service

When one is in a profession such as mine, one expects that the occasional act of violence will be perpetrated against ones person. Expectation and preparation are two different things however, and had I known that there were four men waiting for me in that alley I would have thought about taking another route. Although I try to remain on guard at all times, there are occasions where my concentration is less than it could be, most often due to immersion in my ruminations about the matter at hand. It is a shocking oversight, and one that I have yet learned to correct, but when my mind is taken up with a problem my observation of the outside world can be less than perfect. Brother Mycroft had once suggested the purchase of a dog, preferably one that could be trained to defend me at such times. It is _not_ a suggestion I will be acting upon.

As it was, one of the devilish quartet lurking in the alley had a knife, which unfortunately required stern application of my stick to dissuade him from using it, leading to a rather mixed state of affairs. I emerged from the unexpected yet brief _melee_ knife free, but with an injured hand that increased in pain exponentially the further I travelled from that alley. My usual mastery of mind over body seemed to have deserted me, so I was in rather dire straits when I stumbled into our sitting room at five in the morning. There is apparently a direct correlation between the size of the extremity injured multiplied exponentially by the pain it causes when injured. Thought was _quite_ impossible, as was speech.

The doctor was up, and finishing a cup of tea. From the state of him it appeared he'd had another night disturbed by the dreams of battle, and I vaguely recalled that he was to take an early set of rounds at the hospital this morning. In the weeks since he had been given an occupation he had become more of a presence in our shared rooms. His belongings were as neat as ever and he continued to suffer no small amount of discomfort from his war wounds, which I believe were exacerbated by the combination of cooling weather and work; however the man was making himself known through the unusual medium of notes.

I would go to pick up my violin, or pipe, or beaker and find a note anchored in some fashion to said item, which was sometimes aimed at reminding me of the last scolding my landlady had given me regarding said item. On most occasions the note pertained to his schedule, contained an apology for nocturnal or pre-dawn disturbance, or made some small request of me. When a response was required I took pleasure in secreting my reply in his pockets or the medical bag that he had acquired and stored under his rosewood desk. That he was so able to predict my habits was rather diverting. I had never before lived with someone who took an interest in my movements – not even my brother. It was not entirely unpleasant, as even the notes that could have been termed scolding contained a distinct tone of amusement in them. After some thought on the matter, I judged that amusement was far preferable to acrimony, bearing the mild teasing with the best of graces I could manage.

"Good heavens!" the breakfasting doctor exclaimed upon spying me leaning in the doorway. He stood quickly and I braced myself for either a tirade on the irregularity of a flatmate turning up in such a condition at such an odd hour, or a series of unwanted and noxious medical utterances. Either one would receive short shrift as I was in _no mood_ for it. Therefore I was completely unprepared for the firm grip that latched itself to my person, the firm hand that guided me to our couch and seated me there, or the firm grip that curled around the wrist of my injured hand some countless moments later.

It took everything I had not to swing for the fellow, so unused as I was to being manhandled in such a manner without as much as a by-your-leave. He was lucky that I was so out of breath or he'd have been treated to a blistering lecture of the first water. As it was I had no time to decide which reaction to his surprisingly gentle and competent manhandling was more important.

In an instant he had assessed the injury to my hand, determined a course of treatment and enacted it, all without consulting with his patient; I was not even given the chance to inform him that I did not want anything to do with his medicines and strictures! He made a swift movement, there was a soft click and the pain in my hand vanished as if it had never existed. My rather startled breath was ignored, as was the sudden relaxation of my spine as he continued to examine my now blissfully pain free hand.

"Two fingers dislocated, abrasions to the knuckles and one broken nail," the doctor murmured, "Though it looks like you gave as good as you got."

"I did," I confirmed as a point of honour, and he chuckled rather inexplicably. He seemed to have produced bandages from thin air as he strapped my fingers together in a splint that I would remove as soon as his back was turned, and stood back moments later to survey his handy work.

"Anything else requiring attention?" he asked calmly, and inexplicably prepared a cup of tea for me when I shook my head. My bruises needed no attention or noxious medicines, and I took the tea with my good hand, moodily wondering how long I would have to forgo the pleasures of my violin. The doctor repacked his bag, put a plate of toast by my elbow and limped for the door.

"I'd recommend a warm bath with Epsom salts for the bruises, old chap," he opened the door to the landing, "And a day spent quietly."

"Unfortunately I have matters to attend to," I replied haughtily, in an attempt to discourage him from dispensing a long list of medical advice. Although, if this was an unfortunate taste of his medical prowess, I would have to re-evaluate my stance on doctors, at least in his case. Possibly.

"As you like," he replied peaceably, "I'll be back some time this afternoon. Good morning."

"Good morning," it would have been churlish to ignore him after his assistance of moments ago, and by habit I counted his steps down the stairs. He lingered in the hall for a moment, probably catching his breath, and then proceeded through the front door. I nibbled on a piece of toast for a moment and then drained my cup of tea, kicking off my shoes and contemplating the bandage around my fingers. It was most difficult to see where the bandages had been secured, and as it was my right hand I would risk losing a finger if I went at them with a knife…

It was not until Mrs Hudson arrived to inform me that she had drawn my bath and added the salts that I realised the doctor had paused to enlist our landlady's aid – a decidedly underhanded move that I had not anticipated. As a fellow professional in the field of mankind and his foibles I had no choice but to reluctantly acknowledge that in this particular round I had been bested by a master.

Practice apparently agreed with the veteran surgeon, and I could not deny that I felt like a new man once I had complied with his 'orders'; my estimation of him, him alone, in his chosen field rose considerably. This may well warrant further investigation.

0o0o0o0


	5. Chapter 5

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Entertainment in Public

I would be hard pressed to precisely recreate the chain of thoughts that led me to invite my flatmate to the recital of the London Symphony that evening, but it could not be denied that the man positively beamed at me in response. His rather diffident 'only if I wouldn't be a trouble to you' was not at all convincing – acting was clearly not one of his talents.

He had the goodness not to babble or chatter in the cab, allowing me to hope that the evening would pass tolerably. I was not one for gratuitous conversation: evidently we had roomed together long enough for him to realise this. Still, it was evident that he was looking forward to the occasion keenly as he was more animated than was his wont in the evening.

Usually, he returned from the hospital in a state of exhaustion. Our evening meal, when I partook of it, was a silent one, and he would retire soon after. Despite the fact that he was eating large portions of our landlady's excellent cooking, he had yet to put on enough weight to seem healthy. If the width of his shoulders was anything to go by, he had joined Her Majesty's Forces a hale young athlete. It was somewhat disconcerting to be able to see both who he was now and who he had been simultaneously and realise that he had given more than his talents in medicine and his blood in the service of his country.

This evening that exhaustion was put aside by main force of will as the man enjoyed what he clearly saw as a rare treat in the company of his flatmate. It was apparent in the energy of his step and the light of his eyes.

I dislike going about in Society – one always seems to be stuck with the simpering idiots or those who wouldn't be able to reason their way out of their own overcoats. In addition, people seem to not appreciate the talent that goes into deducing their history from their clothes and other indicators, which has resulted in more than one uncomfortable discussion. Those that do not object to the talent see it as a mere parlour trick, something to be performed for their amusement. Of the two, I cannot decide which I find more unbearable.

I had been given the use of a client's box for the evening, and my flatmate settled into his chair quietly, taking the time to regain his breath after the stairs and whatnot. I ran my eyes over the crowd below, watching as they jockeyed for position in the endless game of social standing. It was all such a frightful bore, and only the promise of the music to come kept me in my seat.

The orchestra took their places and warmed up, the lights lowered and I sat back, my arms folded and eyes half closed to better appreciate the music. Time had no meaning as I listened and the arrival of the interval, though necessary, was most unwelcome.

My flatmate got up and moved to the back of the box, stretching discretely. I shifted in my chair and blew out a bored sigh, my eyes running over the adulterer and his mistress directly below.

"Do you see an acquaintance?" my flatmate asked, rejoining me by the edge of the box, looking down into the crowd below, "You know that you are most welcome to leave me here if you wish to speak with a friend."

"That would be rather rude of me, to imply that your company was lacking in such a way," I replied, mostly amused at the offer; surely by now the man had realised that I had no 'friends' to greet, "And no, to ease your mind, I don't see a friend below. I was looking at the adulterer and his mistress."

"Ah, the woman in the purple evening dress and her escort," Watson nodded, glancing carelessly down, "I had wondered."

"Yes," I gave him a sharp look, wondering how on earth he'd managed to… "You followed my line of sight."

"That and I know the gentlemen's wife. She is not here tonight, in fact she is not even in Town," the doctor sighed, "I assume you've seen the gossip columns, they're full of the scandal."

"That would explain the shunning," I gestured at the milling crowd below us, who were ardently avoiding the couple in question. Watson snorted and shook his head.

"Hypocrites of the first water, most of them," he muttered, a comment that I was clearly not meant to hear. It was evident that his sympathies were clearly with the embarrassed wife: at this stage of our acquaintance, his sense of chivalry was not unknown to me.

"What do you make of the couple by the first row?" I gestured to a woman in Prussian blue silk and her elderly consort. The age difference was _almost_ inexcusable, though it was obvious that they were married. It was also obvious that he was showing his wife off, a trophy for other members of society to admire and envy him for: a disgusting and tasteless display.

"The girl was from a country family, not in his social class and therefore easier for him to control in public as she clings to him for guidance," Watson's voice drifted quietly to my ears, "Quite the trophy wife. Should she outlive him, she will inherit a considerable fortune, which she will probably spend swiftly on baubles and dresses."

His assertions matched what I had been able to deduce from their appearances and interactions. It was obvious that my flatmate spent more time reading the gossip column than I thought, though when he'd had the chance to with his suddenly busy schedule at the hospital...

"The papers didn't report that!" I realised, voicing my thoughts a fraction louder than was strictly decorous, "You've not touched a paper for the last two weeks."

The comment earned me a raised eyebrow and a small smile, though what the fellow was smiling at was beyond me.

"I come into contact with a wide range of people, Holmes. Though they might not have access to the most relevant news, the latest political news, or even the events that are occurring overseas, they all, to a man, woman and child, read the gossip columns. Patients and their families talk to their doctors: I've found that a good gossip often distracts them from some of the less pleasant medical procedures I must perform," he replied, "Besides, I find that people are a fascinating field of study; a life time would not be long enough."

The lights dimmed and my astonishing companion settled back into his chair. I blinked and checked my watch, surprised that the interval had passed so quickly. So far Watson had displayed a remarkable facility for silence and arcane knowledge. The man had unplumbed depths, and as the music started once more I made a mental note to pay more attention to the man.

Perhaps he would be of use in my work.

0o0o0o0


	6. Chapter 6

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

A Fool or a Saint

After six months of residency, it seemed to me that taking the rooms at Baker Street were possibly the best idea I'd had in quite some time. My small practice was attracting a better grade of clients, mostly by news passed on through word of mouth, and the officials at the Yard had begun to pay better attention when I told them the solution to the cases where our paths crossed.

I was of course aware that the men of Scotland Yard were as gossipy as any old woman you would care to name, but had not paid much attention to the fact until a chance comment overheard at the scene of a rather odd burglary informed me that my new flatmate was a subject of discussion among the men.

"A doctor you say?" one of the constables muttered to a friend. I could clearly see that he'd been off work for some time, with a serious illness, which possibly was what led to him indulging in gossip on duty – he was attempting to reacquaint himself with the most recent news related to his job.

"So Lestrade says, not that he's ever met the man. A veteran, apparently, from Afghanistan. Bill Whitehorse says the man knows his business, apparently he's treated Bill before," the friend muttered in reply. I wondered for a moment if Constable Whitehorse was also a veteran or had merely required the services of a doctor in the course of his duties. Watson had not mentioned treating a constable, which was par for the course. He did not discuss his patients with me at all, a refreshing change from those of his profession who used their patients as dinner table conversation.

"Well if that aint a turn up for the books," the recovering man shook his head, "And rooming with Holmes… he's either a fool or a saint."

His friend agreed and they moved on with their duties, leaving me frozen in anger. Although I could not claim to be a close friend to the man, Watson deserved better than that. A war veteran who was struggling to overcome crippling wounds and rejoin his profession should not be the subject of derisive comments from the official force. A man to whom his profession was as much a calling as a means of income should certainly command more respect than he was just shown.

Although I disliked doctors on the whole, I was beginning to have no small amount of respect for the one that shared my rooms. Watson was proving to be a fascinating study, and his society was almost an anticipated addition to my daily routine. Though there were times when we both preferred solitude to company, we had yet to truly fall out over anything, a small miracle when you considered the untidiness of my habits, the irregularity of my hours and my predilection for improvisation on my violin; the noxious chemical experiments didn't help either. We had exchanged opinions on several occasions, but not to the long term detriment of the peace that usually held sway in our rooms. Baker Street had become something of a haven to me, an oasis in the criminal mires of London, something that Montague Street had never been.

"Mr Holmes?" Lestrade's voice cut into my thoughts and I stood, straightening to my full height to tower over the diminutive Inspector and glaring down at him. I could tolerate slurs upon my own person – my work would be my answer and an adept one at that – but Watson had no such defence. I would not stand by and let an ignorant constable cast slurs against the character of a man I was coming to recognise as a tolerable and decent chap.

"Is it the custom of the official force to show such blatant disrespect for professional gentlemen over their choice of roommate?" I asked in my coldest tone. Lestrade coloured, rightly surmising that the constables closest to me had been indiscrete in their gossip and shooting a look at their backs which boded ill for them in the future.

"No Mr Holmes, it is not," Lestrade gritted, "I'll have a word with them."

I nodded shortly, and jotted down the more important points of interest in the case. I tore the page from my note book and handed it over to Lestrade, confident that he would require my assistance at a later date when he failed to appreciate the significance of the greenish mud on the edge of the window sill. In the meantime the constables would be rebuked, probably for the wrong thing. It didn't matter, as long as they learned to keep their opinions to themselves.

Really, with incidents like this it was no wonder I had refused all pressures to join the Yard officially! That they could malign decent men like Dr Watson simply because he chose to room with me… it was intolerable!

0o0o0o0


	7. Chapter 7

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Perils of Society

With the closing of a case came rewards, though not always to my taste. The financial reward was a necessary evil – though I had quite a large inheritance from Father it was set in such a way as I could not access it until I had 'established myself firmly in a recognised occupation'. There should be a law against the dead interfering with the living, but my dotty great-grandfathers wishes were apparently set in stone and girded in iron, thus all sons of our family were burdened in such a way.

If I had my druthers I would have worked for the art of it, not the fiscal benefits, but that was not to be. I would need to firmly establish myself and build a client base before I could access any of the trust held in abeyance. Mycroft, of course, was already enjoying the fruits of father's labours, as he had taken the family post with the Government, something that I had refused with no little horror.

Other rewards came in the form of gifts, many of which were more of a burden than a pleasure. As Lestrade had also been 'gifted' by our client I was at least not suffering alone. The good Mrs Lestrade was clearly enjoying the opportunity to be out in Society, mixing with the various patrons of the British Museum as if she had known nothing else. Rumour had it that whenever Lestrade encountered job related injuries and illnesses she threatened to bill the Yard for her time spent in nursing him back to health. I was awaiting the day that she carried out her threat with interest, word had it that Lestrade had managed to dissuade her each time, but that could not last forever.

"You could at least _attempt_ to look as if you weren't here under duress or on sufferance," my flatmate murmured as he handed me a drink, and I sighed and fixed him with a half hearted glare. The man was doing me a favour, after all. He had agreed to accompany me at the last minute – my fault as I was so tardy in issuing the invitation – and I was relying upon him for my entertainment this evening. He had so cleverly matched my observations at the concert, I was curious to see if that was a one off occurrence or if he was capable of continuing to do so. That I also found the mans conversation diverting was another very thin silver lining in an otherwise dark cloud of Societal Expectations.

"I am not in the habit of lying so blatantly," I informed my flatmate, who was forced to smother his laugh in a cough. I upped the strength of my glare, but the wretched man simply turned to observe the mass of people around us, wholly unaffected. This was rather disconcerting – I had noted that he seemed immune to my darker looks; I was used to the opposite.

"Hello Mr Holmes," Lestrade muttered gloomily. His wife was talking to a small group of women, all evidently well acquainted, "I see you came after all."

"It would have been churlish to refuse," I replied, knowing full well that on some days 'churlish' may as well have been my middle name, "Lestrade I don't believe you've met my friend, Dr Watson."

As the two of them shook hands and exchanged preliminary greetings I wondered if there was more in the drink Watson had handed me than I first anticipated. It was not my habit to go around introducing my companions as 'friends', though Watson had certainly used that word in connection to me before, to my astonishment. True, I had defended him to the Yard, something that I had never done for any other of my acquaintance unless they were in legal difficulties… I found him a useful diversion when forced to go about in Society… his company was not unwelcome of an evening as he had a gift for sitting quietly… but did that make him a friend? Evidently I wasn't the only one surprised by the introduction, as Lestrade shot me a slightly wondering look as he shook Watson's hand. Clearly the Yarder was aware of the highly irregular nature of that introduction. I pondered over it for a moment and then put it aside, deciding to think about it later, in the comfort of our rooms at Baker Street.

By the time I once again paid attention to the men in front of me they were discussing the central display that was the reason for this gathering, with Lestrade showing that he had learned more than I'd thought from all his time spent in and out of the Museum on the case. Watson also seemed to have a small store of knowledge, and between the two of them they were quite engrossed in the matter. As this freed me from joining in with the usual expected platitudes I was quite happy to allow them to continue. Watson was quite a personable chap when he wasn't creased over with pain, and Lestrade seemed to take to him quite strongly.

Their chatter allowed me to resume my survey of the persons around us, stretching my deductions to the limits they would go, knowing that in some cases I would need to tap the storehouse of gossip that Watson seemed to gather to confirm or disprove my theories. I was about to break into their discourse with a question of my own – unrelated to their discussion, but that was a small matter – when something caught my eye. We were being observed quite closely by several men.

It was not difficult to turn slightly to give me a clearer view of the group. One could tell at a glance that they were not low criminals – the markers were all too clear and difficult to erase. They were military, either newly returned from the tropics or invalided out; it varied from person to person. That fact alone rang warning bells in my mind. The veteran I shared rooms with would certainly not appreciate being surprised here this evening by former military acquaintances with a grudge. The doctor was a mannerly person, who disliked making a scene; this had been more than evident on the few occasions when he'd been caught by unexpected pain in public.

There were three in the group, all of an age with each other, all well dressed in the way that the military had taught them. Watson was not the only man who wore his formals like a uniform, which had made him the object of several admiring female glances this evening already. All three men were murmuring to each other, slight frowns creasing their foreheads as they debated the merits of coming over and confronting my flatmate. I knew little of Watson's service overseas, save that he had seen one of the worst defeats Her Majesties armed forces had suffered to date, and lived to tell the tale. Though I suspected that he was more than competent as a doctor, I had no idea of how well he'd gotten along with the men in his regiment. As most of his regiment had been decimated at the battle of Maiwand, I could not ask and he quite naturally never spoke of them.

Before I could discretely direct my flatmates attention to the trio they came to a decision and crossed the floor, clearly intent on speaking to us.

"Watson," I warned quietly, and something in my tone caused him to break off his conversation with Lestrade at once, turning inquiring eyes upon me. Before I could elaborate, the trio had reached us and the leader, a dark haired young man with a bare chin, cleared his throat to draw attention to himself.

"I beg your pardon, Major Watson…" he said delicately, and there was a flash of dread in my flatmates eyes, buried as quickly as it surfaced. He turned calmly to look at the trio that had joined us and Lestrade stepped back to stand beside me, the better to view the trouble brewing before us.

"… good evening Lieutenant Price," Watson said at length, "How are you?"

"Very well, sir, thank you kindly for asking," Price replied, his face lighting up in pleasure, "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."

"You were my first patient in Afghanistan," Watson seemed amused, "And a rather unusual case. And is this Captain Walters? Good to see you again, young sir."

"And you, Major," Walters was the invalid, one slightly withered arm held protectively close to his body, a faint scar climbing across his hairline, "I never had the chance to thank you…"

"Nonsense," Watson interrupted, such an unusually rude action that I almost stared at him in astonishment, "You have recovered then?"

"All except my arm, sir, just as you said. I do those exercises you recommended every day, they keep me as hale as I could hope for," Walters didn't seem at all disturbed by the interruption. It came to me that Watson was attempting to curtail any discussion of his past with the military, particularly the actions he'd taken to see to the injuries of the men under his care.

"You don't know me, sir," the third man spoke up, "But you knew my brother. He was with the Northumberland Fusiliers. He wrote to our parents and mentioned you quite frequently… when he was sent home, it was you he spoke of most often."

"I'm afraid I don't…" Watson trailed off; searching the other mans face closely, "Though you do remind me of Private Allen."

"Yes sir, my younger brother. He died not long after he came home – his wounds weren't… well, you know what they were, sir," Allen sighed, "I just wanted to shake your hand, sir. We've all of us heard what you did for the Berkshires, sir, and I for one can't thank you enough. If you're ever in Yarmouth, the family would be honoured to accommodate you in any way…"

All three men shook Watson's hand, one after the other, with such solemn formality the depth of emotion the action held for them was clear to any who had eyes to see. Walters also saluted, though he didn't seem to expect a response to that, and all three departed, nodding to Lestrade and myself as they did, the crowds of people around us swallowing them at once.

Lestrade was clearly bursting with questions, but had the tact not to ask them of a man he'd just met. My flatmate was pale and shaken, clearly in no state to withstand interrogation, which made this moment the perfect time for one. In a rare, for me, burst of tact I also refrained, engaging the slightly slower Lestrade in conversation instead, asking his opinion of the waiter that was not so discretely eyeing the jewels of a nearby dowager. Lestrade eased himself to one side, an action that I mirrored, which allowed us to very subtly put the clearly dazed and overcome Watson behind us, offering a slight barrier between him and the rest of the crowd.

As it turned out, the man _was_ eyeing the jewels with a coldly professional gaze better suited to a thief. Mrs Lestrade may soon be threatening to bill the Yard for the damage to her husband's formals as well.

At least the ensuing chase roused Watson from his darker thoughts. If his chosen method of ending said chase is anything to go by, the man used to play rugby rather well.

0o0o0o0


	8. Chapter 8

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Research

"I see we've had the same idea, Lestrade," I muttered as the librarian led me grudgingly into the alcove. It had taken something of a battle to convince the man to show me to the location of the archival copies of press cuttings and military notes that I wanted, and further argument that I would be able to persuade whoever was using them to allow me a brief look as well. When the librarian realised that I wasn't about to be sent away with a flea in my ear the mans expression became even more bitter as he left.

"I was… well, occupational hazard I suppose. Snooping into other people's business when I wouldn't be welcome…" Lestrade trailed off and sighed, shoving the books he was bent over towards me.

"What have you discovered?" I asked, choosing to sit opposite him. Lestrade was the _most_ tenacious man I'd met to date, and therefore his research skills were quite reliable, provided he was on the right track.

"Dr Watson joined the 45th Northumberland Fusiliers right out of Netley. He served with them for two years in India and Afghanistan before transferring to the 66th Berkshires. He was a rifleman, and by all accounts that I've managed to unearth, an excellent shot. He was also quite popular with the regiment – both regiments – that he served with."

"Transfers are unusual when there is no scandal to be adverted, are they not?" I frowned, "I'm not up on military protocols."

"Not as unusual as you might think, and the Berkshires lost several officers in a short space of time, their chief doctor among them: one death, one retirement, and one medical discharge. The regiment would have needed to be stabilised, and from what I can gather Dr Watson was requested at a high level to assume the post," Lestrade tapped his fingers on the table as he spoke, listing off the facts he had uncovered in stolid policeman fashion.

"I see," I nodded, and broached the subject that I had the most qualms over, "Was he with them long, before Maiwand?"

I was beginning to feel somewhat protective of the man that shared my sitting room; something that was _entirely_ without precedent in my career. Watson had returned from the British Museum reception with a fine set of bruises, a jarred war wound and a haunted look in the back of his eyes that pre-empted the nightmares that plagued him that night. He had been withdrawn this morning over the breakfast table, though he had taken himself off to St Bart's as per usual, leaning rather more openly on his stick than was his wont.

"Long enough to distinguish himself several times," Lestrade sighed, "He was mentioned in dispatches."

This was quite an honour, one that led to promotion or medals or both. I had never seen anything among his possessions that would indicate this, though I was beginning to understand that my fellow lodger was quite modest about his accomplishments. I knew, from a passing conversation with Stamford, that the board at St Bart's was very pleased with Watson's service, and were considering making an extension to the offer they had first presented to him. Watson himself had not mentioned this, and I was beginning to understand that he wouldn't.

"Then came Maiwand…" Lestrade shook his head, "It was a disaster from start to finish. Cross orders, mislaid or delayed communications, blatant cowardice…"

"I know something of it, from the accounts at the time," I nodded. I also knew something of it from Mycroft, who had summoned me to track down a man that had some idea of starting a confidence game based upon the battle, which would have ended in him blackmailing several peers of the realm. That little job had given me enough money to cover my rent for several months in a row, until the place at Baker Street had opened up.

"The Berkshires, those of them that survived the initial hostilities, rallied together under the guidance of several junior officers and covered the retreat of the wounded soldiers. They were slaughtered, to a man. Dr Watson, according to the official reports, organised the retreat, and only joined it when he was wounded. In fact, from all accounts he would not have left the regiment behind if he'd been conscious at the last."

"I see," I breathed, and Lestrade sighed. He looked exceptionally grim, leading me to believe that his story was not done.

"They made it to the nearest city, but that was about to fall under siege. Dr Watson took personal charge of a convoy of wounded men, even though he was in no fit state to do so, and took them out of the city before the siege began, marching them in wagons and donkey trains to the next city and safety. They were sent on from there to different locations on the coast, and by the time he arrived at a hospital to recover the damage was done. He caught enteric fever whilst there and was invalided out of the army once he recovered."

What Lestrade didn't need to say was that a man weakened already by the terrible wounds suffered in battle and further beaten down by hard travel and deep responsibility, would have been in very dire straights indeed. Enteric fever was a hideous illness, and would have been all the more severe for the exhaustion and wounds my flatmate was already suffering. A slight chill touched me at the thought that I might never have had the chance to meet the good man that shared my lodgings.

"I do not believe he would wish this bandied about the Yard," I warned Lestrade, gathering my things. The little Inspector pulled a face and stood as well.

"No fear of them hearing it from _me_," he replied, "Though if I ever hear of anyone running him down again they'll be on the blessed Billingsgate detail for the rest of their natural life. Besides, there are former soldiers at the Yard – chances are that one or two of them know of him. Once they realise who he is, the gossip will stop."

"Excellent," I nodded and left the Inspector picking up his research materials. Watson was only working a half day today. Perhaps he would enjoy company on his customary afternoon walk.

0o0o0o0


	9. Chapter 9

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Professional Consideration

A minor cold and a fortuitously timed letter had drawn Watson from his practice at St Bart's to the pleasures of the autumnal countryside. An old friend of his from his army days had 'finally persuaded him', in Watson's own words, to come for a visit. I was not pleased to see him go – with the cooling weather his wounds were once more making themselves keenly felt, and he had yet to sleep a night through since our encounter with his fellow officers at the British Museum last month.

I had, at first, found it difficult to engage in conversation with him. How does one broach the subject of heroism when ones conversational partner is the hero in question? After a few days it was more than evident that the answer to that question was: one doesn't, especially with Dr JH Watson. Though he did not forbid the conversation through any look or gesture, it was none-the-less clear to me that the brief conversation that had led Lestrade and myself to research the past was not open to discussion.

It was hard to reconcile the hero of the reports with the quiet man that teased me about my chemical experiments, odd manners and violin solos. The man that offered to pick up further supplies of tobacco and ink was not some dashing hero, always putting his stamp on every situation. The man who slipped notes amongst my pipes or even the pages of the book I was using for research was certainly no broken army hero, clinging to the glory days. Hence the unwelcome nature of any such discussion.

Watson had accompanied me on several afternoon and evening excursions since the debacle at the British Museum. He had begun to ask questions about my association with the officials that upheld the law in our not-so-fair city, his curiosity slowly becoming far too great for him to disguise. I was of course teasing him with the knowledge, alternatively dangling hints and turning the discussion aside. The verbal jousting was highly enjoyable and in the meantime it was distracting him from his worsening health. It was apparent to me that with the looming of winter, his wounds were once more renewing their grip upon him; a grip which had only barely loosened in the warmer weather. It was to be hoped that as time passed he would gain more ground than was lost – it was evident to me that his recovery was going to be a much slower affair than I had first thought. As the extremely stubborn idiot had yet to surrender to the inevitable and reduce his workload in the slightest it was to be expected that he come down with a cold that confined him to a fever bed for five days. His term at St Bart's was almost over, and the signs upon his person said that he was venturing out into the city itself to deal with patients on 'home care'. This was, I knew, the next step in his quest to commence general practice thus I could at least understand his reluctance to short the tasks that drained his already slender reserves each day.

However, even in the long months that had passed since his return to English soil; he had yet to recoup the strength he had lost, which complicated the matter of his current illness. Stamford became a regular visitor, though from a comment that I overheard _entirely_ by accident, his visits were not welcome. Watson evidently felt he should be left to manage his own health as he saw fit.

The letter from his former friend came only one day after he'd left his sickbed, thankfully without gifting the rest of the household with his illness. The enclosed invitation arrived when his resistance was at its lowest, and he accepted at once. Mrs Hudson clearly approved, going so far as to packing his bag and sending a note to St Bart's that he would be out of town for 'awhile'. She also, though I did not know how she managed to get the address, nor did either of us mention this to Watson, sent a letter to the friend's cook, instructing that unsuspecting person in the sort of meals that would best tempt Watson's very poor appetite.

In his absence, the rooms were strange. I had not realised how accustomed I had become to seeing him in the corner of my eye, reading or writing quietly, or hearing his footsteps about the house. Mrs Hudson also seemed at something of a loss, as she seemed to be underfoot more often. She was also _most_ strident upon the state of the floors after I had spent the better part of two days updating my commonplace books and then burning the remaining shreds of paper. It was only a little glue and ash, the fuss was entirely unwarranted in my opinion.

I had no one to consider when playing my violin, so that at least allowed me greater scope with my improvisations, however nor was there anyone to offer a quiet comment upon them either. The doctor had proven to have some small knowledge of music and could make minor intelligent comments upon the way a piece sounded.

I had no one to consider when performing my chemical experiments, though they were sharply curtailed after one very nearly caused asphyxiation for the entire household and Mrs Hudson confiscated several of my more interesting components. Had Watson been there he would doubtless have caught the error and warned me; he had observed my chemical experiments before – I had taken shameless advantage of his note taking abilities, which saved me having to scribble and measure simultaneously. That he was able to follow the process and engage in informed discussion of the results was something of a rarity, making him a fortunate choice in flatmate indeed.

During his absence I was engaged on several trivial matters, three of which I could solve from my armchair. Not one was worthy of my skills, but as I was still building my client base, I could not afford to turn anyone away. Once I was well established I could be more discerning in which cases I took. In two of the cases his ready store of gossip would have been quite useful to me. I kept track of the agony columns in the papers, for they were the place to look if one wanted to find crime in its nascent stages. I did not wish to clutter my mind with the meaningless trivia of the gossip and society pages as well, hence Watson's usefulness. The only other man I knew that could assist in such a manner was an old school friend – and his services had to be paid for one way or another.

It was something of a shock to me to realise that I had come into the habit, in a very roundabout way, of discussing my business with Watson. Though I never made open referral to my clients or their case, our evening or breakfast conversations were quite informative in their own way. Additionally, when Mrs Hudson came down with a wheezy chest after my failed experiment, I found I would have much preferred Watson to see to her than the charlatan that she called in: he was far too old to be of any use, family physician or not. Watson would have set her to rights much more quickly I was sure, though when I offered to send for him our landlady threatened to raise my half of the rent for a year.

We were both pleased when he telegraphed his arrival to Mrs Hudson three days in advance. She made sure to inform me with my breakfast tray; though I was not sure I appreciated her comments about seeing some 'normal behaviour return to the house'. I saw nothing abnormal in a man practicing his music or science in the comfort of his own sitting room. Experiments, of either sort, took time, so I especially considered her remark about 'ungodly hours' to be most illogical. However, she _had_ been ill recently, which may well have contributed to her irrationality.

Watson returned to Baker Street with a little colour in his cheeks, though he had not put on the weight that Mrs Hudson had clearly hoped for. True to form, he was barely in the door before realising his landlady had been ill. He had her whisked off to her parlour in moments, his black bag accompanying them. I later heard him enter the kitchen, a room that I was forbidden entry to, and emerge with a tea tray for the woman, before coming upstairs to our rooms and hanging his hat and coat as of old.

"Hallo, Holmes," he smiled on his way to his desk, the limp barely noticeable today, "I hear that an experiment went wrong."

"She _would_ tell you," I muttered, though he had deduced that there was something wrong with Mrs Hudson's health without her assistance. He put his doctors bag away, always his second action when he came into the house with it, the first being to remove hat and coat, then sat in his accustomed armchair with a small sigh.

"Only because I was insistent on the point. You should have recalled me, that doctor of hers is too close to his years of forgetfulness for my liking," he said firmly, "I would have come at once."

"She threatened to raise my rent if I did," I retorted, and Watson laughed. I quirked a smile at him, knowing that it was childish of me to be so cowed by our mutual landlady.

"Well then, enough said," Watson dropped the subject at once, crossing his legs, "Anything else happen while I was away?"

I shook my head and reached for my pipe, wondering if he had kept up with his gossip. There were one or two subtle questions I wished to ask him, though it would be much easier if I simply relinquished our teasing and told him straight out what I did for a living. Then I could ask my questions plainly.

It was rapidly becoming a serious point of consideration. My flatmate could definitely be of use in my work.

0o0o0o0


	10. Chapter 10

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Dinner Conversation

"And yet can it be called a success?" I leaned back in my chair, looking out at the crowd of theatre goers. The waiter removed the empty soup plate and I lit a cigarette as we waited for our main course, "The case is solved, the murderer captured, but was it an act of justice to imprison a dying man seeking vengeance for a grievous wrong?"

"Was it not?" Watson replied, folding his arms on the table edge, "What gave Hope the right to murder those men?"

I drew on my cigarette and viewed my friend, and despite all my inclinations to the contrary the man had become one over the last months, through the resulting smoke. He was holding his shoulder quite carefully, which had been badly jarred as a result of assisting myself, Gregson and Lestrade in the capture of Jefferson Hope. I had finally admitted to my roommate my profession, demonstrated my skills and in a moment of rare weakness asked him to accompany me on the case that Lestrade had brought to my attention.

It had been more of a challenge than I had supposed, working in front of a man who was more than able to follow my line of thought once I gave him the first few threads. He had no talent for observation and deduction when it came to a crime scene, but that could be trained into him. I could not deny that discussing the case with him had been of benefit. Nor did he hound me for details at every turn; instead he chose his moments of inquiry with especial care. Not even _Mycroft_ could wheedle me as well as Dr JH Watson.

"Surely you do not deny that he suffered an injustice," I riposted, "By his lights he was seeking the only justice that he could."

"By that argument any man with a grudge that he deemed to be righteous and true would have a licence to kill," Watson shook his head, his brow furrowing, "The taking of a life, no matter what, can not be justified."

"You can say that? And you a soldier?" I asked, and his face changed. I perceived at once the tactless nature of the question, but was unable to apologise or recall the remark as the waiter was setting our meals in front of us. Watson sat with his head bowed and slightly turned away. He had made sure not to face the window when he did so, perhaps aware that I would see his expression on the glass. I had no doubt however that I had wounded him greatly by comparing the actions of a soldier on a battlefield to that of a common murderer. I knew all too well the compassion and humanity he brought to the treatment of his patients, as well as his skill. On the three occasions that I or Mrs Hudson had needed his services to date I was certain that we had recovered much more quickly than we would have under the care of another physician.

"Yes, I can say that," his voice was strained, but steady, a feat in and of itself, "Because I must live every day with the breach of my oath to '_first do no harm_'. My actions in Afghanistan were ordered and sanctioned by my Monarch. I did what She asked of me, but it was not easy, Holmes. And that is as it should be. The taking of another's life should _never_ be easy."

"I am sorry, dear chap," I said in a low tone, as gentle as I could make it, "That comment was unworthy of me. I would never dream of comparing you to those that consider taking another's life to be in any way justified. You and your comrades were following the orders given you – I know better than to have implied otherwise."

Watson nodded and reached for his water glass. I pretended not to notice the trembling in his fingers, instead turning my attention to my meal. I no longer wanted it, but it would offer us both a distraction from the terrible path I had led our discussion along. After a long moment my friend also took a tentative bite of his meal; we spent several minutes in silence, feigning interest in the food before us.

"… And yet," Watson said at length, "Could it not be argued that the death penalty is also murder for revenge?"

I almost choked on my bite of asparagus. That was an argument that I had not considered before. This was one of the reasons that I considered the man opposite me a friend and not a peer. A peer could hold his own in any ordinary conversation with me; a friend could do so whilst forgiving me my tactless ways. With his comment, Watson was moving the conversation back onto a neutral ground, allowing the tension between us to pass. He was generous to a fault in this way, something that any friend of mine would need to be.

"I had not thought of it in quite that light," I confessed, "That would imply that Society at large believed that revenge was a suitable _modus operandi_. What would you do with a convicted murderer if the death penalty was outlawed?"

"Incarceration for life," Watson replied promptly, "That is a sentence that is already carried out in some cases – certainly a life sentence spent performing hard labour is no picnic."

"Ah, but who would pay for the cost of that incarceration? After all, there is the food, clothing and keeping of the criminal to consider. He would earn no wage to pay for that himself, his family may not be in any position to pay for him either… it would fall to the lot of the tax payers. I cannot imagine the common man standing for that," I mused. My fellow lodger nodded, a thoughtful look stealing into his eye.

"Nor can I imagine the punishment being as much of a deterrent as the death penalty," he agreed, "If you know that your life is forfeit, the deterrent is much greater. There would be some that felt that hard labour could be endured if it gave them the simple satisfaction of knowing that their victim is dead."

"Very true," I agreed, "The basest of men would indeed see incarceration as an equitable exchange for their act of revenge."

I was somewhat surprised to see that my plate was empty, not recalling consuming the contents. The conversation, despite my blunder, had been so engrossing that I had quite forgotten myself. Yet another desired quality in a friend.

I was rapidly coming to realise that taking the rooms in Baker Street with Stamford's recommended flatmate was one of the best decisions I had ever made.

_A/N – that discussion was purposely left unresolved. It is not my place to dictate to anyone what their views should be on the death penalty. Nor do I intend to push one view above another. This is an emotive issue – lets be adult about it. I CERTAINLY DON'T believe that a soldier fighting in the defence of his country and fellow soldiers is a murderer._

0o0o0o0


	11. Chapter 11

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Samples of Practice

I looked up as the door slammed, irritated that my concentration had been disturbed. This was a particularly thorny problem and interruption now could mean starting all over again.

Watson was storming across the sitting room towards me, somewhat dishevelled and his left hand wrapped in his stained handkerchief. He looked somewhat heated; I hoped that whatever had distracted him and got his dander up had not prevented him from collecting the soil sample I had requested. We needed an exemplar if we were to pin our quarry down without a doubt. At the moment the case was rather tenuous.

"Ah, Watson! Did you get it?" I asked, putting out a hand for the expected sample. I was rather dismayed when he didn't hand over the requested item, instead drawing himself to his full height and glaring at me with no little ire. I had a job of it not to squirm under that glare, something that not even my brother could cause me to do any more!

"_Did I get it?_" the question was breathed in a tone indicating extreme vexation, when really a yes or no would do, "You can claim to be the only consulting detective in the world, the man who specialises in observing the unobserved, and you sit there and ask me did I _get it?!_"

"I take it you encountered some opposition?" I was well aware that the question was rather weak; in the light of his reaction it was also apparently ill advised. He had been going from red to purple, but in the wake of the question went a rather ominous white. His eyes, normally a warm hazel, glittered coldly and his moustache positively quivered. I began to wonder if this was how his subordinates in the army felt when called to task for some slight misdemeanour.

"Yes, Holmes, there was _opposition_!" that last word was spat at me like a bullet and I felt its impact.

"Let me see," he continued in that same deadly tone, "First of all you forgot to mention that the place was hosting some sort of function, which was strictly admittance by invitation only. I managed to get in by the tradesman's entrance among all the bustle and to-ing and fro-ing, and from there gained access to the gardens. Secondly, you failed to mention that there would be a number of annoyed terriers running around the place, all of them intent on instantly freezing onto the ankles of the nearest stranger, merely for the joy of it. Fortunately for us all, they enjoy a game of fetch, and there were plenty of sticks for me to throw. This was because you had _also_ failed to mention that the gardening staff were apparently in the midst of redesigning the _entire_ garden, leaving large piles of clippings and other such detritus where an unsuspecting person desiring to remain out of view of the main house could trip over them, _repeatedly_."

"I see…" I began, hoping to calm my friend down. I would have offered him a sherry, or perhaps something rather stronger, if I'd been able to get up from my chair. Unfortunately, he had me neatly trapped and was looming over me with great effect. Were I made of weaker stuff I would have been quite cowed by it all. As it was, I was most uncomfortable to see the man in such a temper. If this was a sample of his 'bull pup' off the leash I would have to take especial care not to provoke it to this extent again. Some friction was only to be expected, given both our habits and respective personalities; to raise the mans temper to this pitch again was clearly contraindicated.

"No, Holmes, I don't think you do!" was the cool retort, "Because the _friend_ that sent me out to retrieve his vital soil sample was adamant that there was only one spot in the garden that would do!"

"The garden holds a single…" I tried to explain once more why I had needed a sample from a very specific location, but was not granted the leave to do so by the irate veteran in front of me. I was also rather disconcerted by the venom the word 'friend' had held… in that tone it sounded more like and epithet than a benefit.

"_I don't care_!" he interrupted fiercely, "After falling no less than _eight_ times, yes Holmes, I counted them, I _finally_ managed to get within a sticks throw of the desired location."

"So you did get the sample!" I beamed, and then blanched when he tossed his hands on his hips and turned up the strength of his glare. How he wasn't blinded by the ferocity of it I will never know. I also noticed that the stain on the handkerchief was growing larger slowly, something that made me quite uneasy.

"_Yes I got your blasted sample!_" his voice rose to a near shout, "But only after being attacked by the households completely _deranged_ cat, a gang of moles apparently trained to undermine an intruders footing when _least_ expected and no less than _seven_ homicidal pigeons!"

I burst into laughter. I couldn't help it. Even as his eyes bulged in indignation and his face flushed an alarming purple, the mirth rolled out of me in uncontrolled waves. I believe I came within an ace of being force fed the sample as he deposited it forcefully on the table and then positively threw himself into the nearest chair to sulk.

"Next time get your own accursed sample," he muttered when I had finally regained my composure. I wiped my eyes and got out of my chair to hunt up his black bag.

"Show me your hand, old chap," I deposited his kit on the table beside me and beckoned him over. He moved grudgingly and held the injured appendage out with ill grace.

"I'm sorry, Watson. I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf," I unwrapped the material carefully, wincing at the deep lacerations on both the palm and back of the hand; clearly the cat had been quite large as well as deranged. I hovered over his bag, trying to decide on the best course of treatment, only to have his strong hand pluck several items from it and set them on the table.

"Get me some hot water, Holmes," he sighed, "And then leave me to deal with it. You've got work to do if you're to have the results for your client by tonight."

"Our client, Watson," I rebuked him lightly, "After all your efforts, this case is as much yours as mine."

That remark garnered a small smile, and I judged that his fit of temper had run its course. I returned with the hot water and bowl as requested, as well as several old cloths that he could soil without worrying about their value and deposited them on the table with a pat to his shoulder. He waved me off, though his eyes had once more returned to their normal warm hue.

"I say Watson," I remarked as I sat down and prepared for the analysis to come, "You've quite the talent for description. Have you ever thought of becoming a writer?"

The choke from the table was warning enough that I had best confine myself to my analysis.

0o0o0o0


	12. Chapter 12

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Dangerous Thoughts

The door shut behind my personal physician with a resounding click, as if punctuating his last remarks. I pulled a very childish face at it and shifted a little beneath my blankets, musing on ways to get around his ultimatum. Out in the sitting room his footsteps strode wearily towards the settee and then stumbled, breaking my chain of thought.

I listened anxiously as he recovered with what sounded like an outright stagger before finally almost falling onto the settee. Had I been able to get out of the cocoon he'd wrapped me in, I'd have been there in a flash to see that he was alright. As it was I could not, the sprained wrist too weak to pull back the blankets and the sprained knee too painful to put my weight upon. My head would not appreciate any undignified hopping and my ribs positively forbade it.

I thought back to the last few moments, to the furious tirade I had been subjected to by my outraged doctor and this time I listened to what he _hadn't_ said.

I had been unconscious for some time, though I had been able to insist that I be returned to Baker Street by the constables that had broken up the gang that had turned upon me. My injuries were many, though the head injury had been his main concern. He had sat up with me the whole time, neglecting his practice at the charity hospitals and his duties as locum to do so, tending to my needs with the dedication of a dear friend.

My doctor had been exhausted. He had clearly not been sleeping well, or much, as was reflected in his grooming and general appearance. I had been set upon late in the evening, which meant he had returned from a full day at his work to an emergency that had since occupied his time. He had sat in my room with me for the last two days while I drifted in and out of painful consciousness, knowing that if I had waited for his assistance that evening the gang would not have been able to inflict quite so much damage upon me.

He felt guilty that he hadn't been with me when I most needed assistance, though his absence had been no fault of his. In fact I had confessed to him that I had not asked him along precisely because of the potential for danger. It had been at that point that his temper had exploded.

In the few cases we had worked together since the Jefferson Hope affair, there had been times when danger had come upon us. In each instance he had been a stalwart and able defender. The danger had always been minor and we had been more than able at seeing them off with little to no injury to ourselves. In fact the most severe injury sustained had been my grazed knee, caused by tripping over a loose cobble and his grazed knuckles.

This time, I had estimated that the danger was a little more severe, something borne out by my current state. I had put that argument to him, along with the further argument that I did not wish to see him hurt. His furious tirade that it was his decision to take that risk, that if I had no confidence in his ability to assist him then I should have the decency to say so outright and that he would find himself new quarters if he was such a hindrance to my work had been delivered at a volume that respected my still aching head, though it had lost none of its impact for all that.

The door closing had punctuated his final argument, and his exhausted stumble had done much to further clarify things for me.

The man currently slumped on our settee would take any risk he deemed necessary for a friend. A pensioned soldier, he was used to scraps and scuffles and well accustomed to the danger that always accompanied adversity. By excluding him without consulting him I had damaged his pride terribly and possibly fatally undermined this odd friendship of ours. I had implied through my actions that I did not think him capable of matching me fully in my work, which was not entirely true. His skill in detection was negligible; his skill in all other areas was more than ample. I did not need another detective in this agency we seemed to be forming, but the events of the last few days proved that I did need a comrade, someone to share the burden of keeping watch and safeguarding our persons from attack.

'Many hands make light work.' I could not recall the exact source of the quote, but I could now recognise its partial worth. In our work many hands would merely slow things down and complicate matters – look at what the Yard had to deal with. In my work, it could be better said that 'the right hands make light work' and in this case the right hands were those of Holmes _and_ Watson. Though I would no doubt regret the times that I had to wait for him to be available to me, though we would probably clash over ways and means, I could not deny that without Watson the work was more onerous and painful than with him. I delighted in the gifts of silence he brought to our rooms, his ability as a sounding board and conductor of light were unparalleled in my experience and his ability to parse gossip into useful information was of great use to me. He could even organise, file and arrange information in such a way as to be instantly available upon request; I would have liked to see him reading medicine, as I was sure that his approach was much more organised than those few gentlemen I had previously observed. Without my becoming aware of it, Watson had quietly become an indispensable part of my work.

I would be loathe to see him hurt, and in fact I would probably have this argument with him again and again over the years, provided of course I could persuade him to stay, however I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that in my fellow lodger I had discovered a totally unexpected boon. I would be a fool to let him go.

I must have slept, because when I woke he was checking my pulse with a confident touch. He had shaved, and changed his clothes, though the dressing gown spoke volumes as to his degree of exhaustion, which had not abated. My conscience smote me, and I sighed, turning my hand in his grasp to grip his. He allowed it, raising a grim eyebrow at me.

"You win, old chap. You're quite right; I should have waited for you. I cannot pretend that I am entirely happy that you will put yourself in harms way for my work; however I would be a fool to allow you to leave. If you will promise me to weigh the risks, then I will promise you that I will not deceive you as to the danger of the nights work."

"Thank you, Holmes," the exhausted slump of his broad shoulders and the dull relief in his worn hazel eyes wounded me anew, though he did not know it, "I'll hold you to that promise."

"Only after you've had some sleep, old chap," I replied, relieved that his forgiving nature had not deserted him completely, "I heard that near fall last night."

He flushed and nodded, putting my hand back on the blankets and gesturing at the small bell that had appeared on the bedside table.

"Ring if there is an emergency," he instructed me, then gave me a small glare, "Do not get up."

"I won't," I promised, "I will in fact behave myself like the very model patient. Though once you are rested…"

Watson chuckled and hoisted himself wearily to his feet, blinking rapidly as he swayed on the spot. Once he had regained his balance he turned slowly for the door.

"Oh I am well aware that you will be hell to live with..." he muttered on the way to the door, loudly enough to be clearly audible. He paused in the doorway and fixed me with a very firm look, "As long as you are alive, dear chap, I can put up with anything."

By the time I had found my voice he had retired to the settee once more, settling with a sigh, my door partially ajar so that I could call him if I needed to.

0o0o0o0


	13. Chapter 13

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

A Point of Familiarity

"You've had a wire, sir," Mrs Hudson informed me as she laid the breakfast table, somewhat optimistically as I hadn't taken breakfast for more than a week. She produced said telegram from her apron pocket and set it by my plate rather pointedly before standing beside my chair, one hand upon its back. I heaved a sigh and abandoned my unlit pipe, resolving to put my first smoke of the morning off until I had read the thing. If it was another telegram from Inspector Athelney Jones I would put in a complaint of harassment. I'd already told the man the solution to his problems, now he simply had to find the backbone to inform the 'victims' in question that they had been robbed by their beloved children.

I used my butter knife to open the envelope, an action which garnered a sniff of disapproval from my patient landlady. It was only a moment's work to read the contents, the message contained within a very welcome one.

"Aha!" I crowed and sat in my chair, passing the wire up to Mrs Hudson, "He's coming home this evening!"

I bit into the eggs with relish, anticipating the arrival of our wayward fellow resident. He had been travelling with Stamford, of all people, to attend a series of medical conferences in Edinburgh and Dublin. They had gone together on the theory that they would be able to share the costs of accommodation more easily, and had been absent for a month. Life at Baker Street had been quite dull during that time, as it seemed that all the interesting cases had left London with Watson, leaving only mediocrity in his wake.

"Well then, these rooms will need a proper clean, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson poured me a cup of tea, "And I'll need to air his own rooms as well. You'd best spend the day out."

"Out!" I nearly choked on my bacon, "Surely…"

"Ah!" the sharp exclamation and upheld hand were _quite_ arresting, as was the forbidding expression on her normally kind face, "If I am to get these rooms into habitable shape I will require your absence. You know the maid _refuses_ to come in here when you're home, so unless you wish to assist me by beating the carpets and dusting…"

"I shall be gone in an hour," I promised hastily, and she left with an air of satisfied victory. I finished breakfast quickly and completed my toilette before locking up my violin and heading for the door.

I spent the majority of the day in the British Museum, making use of their Reading Room. I came away with several pages worth of research and a deep seated dislike for poky old academics who think that simply because they are _accustomed_ to sitting in a particular seat it has somehow become their personal property. It was somewhat amusing to watch an elderly man sulk like a little child, if distracting from the matter at hand.

I had left in good time, so that I could complete several small errands, stopping at the bookstore and tobacconist on my way back to Baker Street. The sitting room positively reeked with beeswax, a smell that I endeavoured to banish by smoking a pipe while depositing a box of cigars and a blank journal upon Watson's desk, along with several books. Mrs Hudson had evidently decided that our Watson would be in severe need of a good meal, if the scents from downstairs were anything to go by, and I decided that I would meet his train rather than waiting in our rooms.

I heard Stamford first, not surprising as the man rarely ever stopped talking in my experience. When he had first introduced us, I had been more than a little concerned that Watson emulated our common acquaintance in the verbal department. My friend's rare gift of silence alone was reason enough to treasure our association.

I spotted Watson before I did Stamford though, and that glimpse was enough to make me hasten my steps. Our mutual acquaintance was his usual oblivious self, blathering on about an article that had been presented in one of the publications that bulged from both their bags, doubtless adding pounds to the weight.

"Watson! Stamford!" I called once I was within reasonable distance, well aware that bellowing at the man in a public place upon his return would _not_ be appreciated. My friend's face lit up with a crooked smile as he spotted me, and Stamford looked rather surprised to see me.

"Hello old chap!" Watson said warmly, "You didn't have to come meet us!"

"Not at all," I waved it aside, "I thought we'd share a cab back to Baker Street. Stamford, how are you?"

"Er, quite well thanks, old man," Stamford was clearly unable to switch his tracks quickly enough, a fact that I took shameless advantage of. In very short order we had said our goodbyes and Watson's bags were up on the top of a cab, the man himself seated beside me, before Stamford was able to invite himself along or suggest any other course of action.

"When did it happen?" I wriggled out of my coat and laid it over Watson, who had finally given in to the pain and fallen limp against the gentle movement of the cab. I had been sure to instruct the cabby to drive carefully, and the promise of a sovereign had been enough to ensure he did.

"Just as we were pulling in," his lips were white, his voice tight with repressed pain, "The train jerked horribly as I was pulling my bag down."

"Just take it easy old chap. We'll be home in ten minutes and soon have you to rights," I put a hand on his arm and looked out to keep an eye on the roads in front of us, warning him with a squeeze against each turn or bad section.

He had regained some colour at least when we pulled up, though he did not argue with me about his luggage which was a sure sign that he'd simply been able to master the pain enough to mask it.

Not well enough, though, as Mrs Hudson had him out of his hat and coat and halfway up the stairs before he knew what was what. I hurried ahead and met them in the sitting room with his slippers and dressing gown, and between us we had him comfortably installed in his chair in no time at all.

"Dinner will be in an hour," Mrs Hudson shut the door behind her, well aware that our Watson's pain depressed his appetite. Once his shoulder had time to settle he would be hungry again, and ready for a meal.

"I've missed her cooking – the hotels had some _awful_ menus," Watson said dryly, "And your month has been how?"

"Deucedly boring," I sighed, "All the interesting cases have dried up. Perhaps with your return I will once again see some crimes of interest."

"Are you implying that I am somehow an attractor of crime?" Watson asked with interest, "And if so, how do you explain that such a phenomenon never occurred prior to our meeting? Or are you implying that I am in fact an _inciter_ of crime, in which case, why are you complaining?"

I grinned at him and settled into my chair comfortably, more than happy to be able to sit and debate the point with him. It would take his mind off the pain, which would further ease him. Besides, I certainly wasn't going to allow him to blame _me_ for the oddities that came our way.

0o0o0o0


	14. Chapter 14

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Sport Indoors

An impromptu fencing match was not how I expected to spend this rather dreary afternoon. What had begun as an expectation of spending the day locked indoors due to a fine example of London in Winter – grey snow, flying smuts and beastly fog all rolled into one frigidly miserable package – had turned into a day filled with unexpected activity and challenge. Though I had felt the cold fingers of a black mood fasten themselves on the hems of my dressing gown this morning, by the time supper rolled around I would not have been able to tell you what such a fit felt like.

It started with a chance comment from friend Watson. We had been much engaged of late, a rapid succession of trifling cases that had none-the-less required some expenditure in shoe leather and in one case an unanticipated bout of mild fisticuffs. Things had quieted with the onset of the worst weather, and I had sunk into my chemical corner to conduct a rather desultory analysis more for the sake of activity than anything else.

Our bout of fisticuffs had shown that in addition to rugby, Watson had pursued the fine art of boxing in his university days. The ruined shoulder had somewhat cramped his style, as he had yet to learn how to both protect and fight with it. That would only come with practice, and I had resorted to my knowledge of singlestick to dispatch my own opponent in an effort to come more quickly to his aid.

Watson had been in the dumps himself as a result of my rescue, which would not do at all. There had been only one other occasion in our association of more than a year– goodness how the time had flown! – when he had descended into a truly dark mood, the depth of which had terrified me. It had occurred six months after we moved in together and I had never been able to discover its cause. I, the veteran of many such fits, had never seen a man come so close to dieing as Watson had, all due to the depths of his own despair and I believe haunted memories. The good Mrs Hudson had conspired with me to keep him in our company at all times lest he take some drastic action. Now that I could recognise the signs I had come to realise that he pulled himself out of minor fits in a matter of hours, usually by turning to an activity that took him out of himself. With today's weather that would be impossible.

I had taken luncheon with him, more to keep him company than from any true desire to eat, and had read aloud from the paper such items in the agony columns that warranted tracking for further developments. He had asked me several questions about them, linking them to his ever growing storehouse of gossip, even going so far as to inspire me to pull out several of my indexes and annotate them. We began to speak of detection in general and the skills required for such, at which point I launched into a veritable lecture that my poor friend was entirely unable to escape.

There was a purpose to this however, as it allowed me to speak of the 'next time we found ourselves in such straits'. My friend admitted that his boxing skills required some adjustment, though I believe he mentioned 'retraining' – a loathsome concept when it came to the man that I considered to be one of the most capable in his field. He had begun to act as locum for several general practitioners, and had left St Bart's to volunteer for several charity hospitals. They were not in the best part of town so I had a double interest in ensuring that he was able to defend himself should he be set upon.

I suggested single-stick to him as an alternative – the man already carried a stout walking stick, more for his support when tired than as a fashion accessory – and he admitted that he had once 'fenced a little in university'. This was an admirable start, as singlestick was similar in style to fencing, and knowledge of how to wield a foil would help when it came to the less formal style that I favoured.

"We would need to train a little," I mentioned casually, thinking only to suggest that he accompany me to my gymnasium when the weather saw fit to let up.

"I'll clear the table," was the wholly unexpected reply, "Have you two similarly weighted sticks? Or at least one similar to my own? I wouldn't want to see anything damaged by a mismatch in weight."

"I believe I have something that will match your stick," I replied, rather bemused by the light of battle in the mans eye. He nodded enthusiastically and got up, piling things onto the tray that Mrs Hudson had abandoned to the side. Realising that he was entirely serious and not seeing the harm in it, I got up and fetched out his stick before rummaging in the back of my wardrobe for my own. I favoured a lighter stick than he did, as it was entirely a fashion accessory on my part, so the Penang Lawyer that my brother had sent me out of the blue one year had been relegated to obscurity.

I returned to find the floor cleared of any loose items, the tray and its burden out of sight and the door to the landing firmly closed. Watson was standing by the window, attempting to peer out at the beleaguered thoroughfare below.

"It's perfectly wretched out there," he muttered and turned to accept his stick with a nod of thanks. I frowned a little and shot him an assessing glance.

"Forgive me dear chap, but your wounds? They will not pain you too deeply?" I was hesitant to set off his temper but had no wish to injure him in his unexpected enthusiasm. I got a sharp look in reply and a short shake of the head.

"They are what they are," Watson replied darkly, "They will not allow me respite if attacked, and so I might as well get used to fighting whilst under the weather… if you'll forgive the pun."

"Just this once," I nodded gravely and won a small smile and a lightening of his expression.

"Very good of you," he replied just as gravely, moving into the clear space between our chairs, "Shall we?"

What he said about his wounds made sense, however he was terrible at judging his limits, pushing past them with a pride driven stubbornness that was as frustrating as it was understandable. Were I in his shoes I have no doubt that either I or whoever was unfortunate enough to be saddled with my care would have been committed to Bedlam by now, never to be released. Fortunately Watson was able to take a hint and slow down to recoup his breath when he needed to. I would not hesitate to give that hint when the time came. If we were truly mismatched in ability that hint would be given sooner rather than later.

"Very well," I nodded, taking my place opposite him, "We shall start slowly old chap, so that we may gauge each others level of expertise and see where you might need some instruction or adjustment. I don't want to have to call a doctor to you."

"I have no fear on that front," Watson replied, "I will of course see to _your_ hurts... In due time."

The man was teasing me! Even after a year I was unused to it! He was never cruel, or crude, but always unexpected. I shot a quick smile at him and brought my stick up in salute, which he returned with a small smile of his own.

Two hours later we were not smiling. We had at one point overturned my chair, his footstool and shoved the table we ate our meals at roughly to one side. Though his breath was a little shorter than I would have liked, his wounds were holding up admirably. Once he'd gotten the idea that it was not against the rules to use his weaker hand to grab or otherwise foul my stick, Watson had proven to be a remarkably inventive scrapper. It was not fencing, nor was it singlestick, it was however very enjoyable.

In hindsight it is most likely that I should not have attracted the attention of our landlady by jumping the couch and shouting in such an exuberant manner. I certainly shouldn't have allowed myself to be so distracted by her throwing the door open and shouting my name in exasperation that Watson could take advantage of it and disarm me with a triumphant cry of his own.

The breaking of the vase was entirely accidental.

Fortunately my friend seems to be an old hand at apologising to irate elder women who seem entirely unaware that the targets of her ire are no longer in short trousers.

0o0o0o0


	15. Chapter 15

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Medic to a Regiment

"In 'ere, gov," the dock worker nodded uneasily at the flimsy structure clinging to the side of the dock, "I saw 'im go in abou' an 'our ago, an' those lads o' yers draggin' th' other one in no' long aft'r."

"Right," I nodded, and stepped forward, renewing my grip on the single shot revolver in my pocket. Watson was out on his rounds; else I'd have pressed him into service as well. As it was I would be confronting whoever it was accosting my Irregulars on my own. Despite my promise to wait for him, I had not the time if my Irregulars were indeed under attack.

The sad fact was that there were far too many depraved predators in this city, all too eager to exploit the thousands of homeless and vulnerable children that scavenged around her skirts, trying to make a living in whatever way they could. I turned a blind eye – to some extent – to the thievery that the boys carried out, knowing that the funds that I invested in the lads was often not enough to do much more than keep body and soul together.

The news that one of the lads had been dragged kicking and screaming by his fellows into the hut before me, to meet with a man that obviously terrified him, was unnerving news at the very least. I had thought that the small group of boys that I employed and aided as best I could in return for their sharp eyes, clever ears and quick feet had developed some _espirit de corps_ in the time they'd been working together. True there were certain professional rivalries among the lads, something that I had encouraged in the past. The boys worked better when they felt that their professional standing was at stake, and that pride had garnered excellent results for me in remarkably short lengths of time. Had I been mistaken in encouraging them in such a manner?

"'Allo Mister 'Olmes," piped up a bright voice behind me, "Are yew 'ere to see th' doc too?"

I was hard pressed not to jump in surprise as Two Eyed Tommy addressed me on his way to the shack, apparently unconcerned by the sights and experiences that awaited him. It was not unknown for base men to portray themselves as doctors and perform unspeakable 'procedures' on the naïve and unworldly.

"The Doctor?" I repeated, some of my scepticism tinting my voice, "Have you seen his credentials?"

"'E lives wiv yew, Mister 'Olmes," Tommy replied, a slight touch of scorn in his voice, "If'n 'e c'n trick _yew_, wot 'ope 'ave _we_ got? 'Sides, we know better'n to le' some queer fish near us wiv 'is fake cures. Tha's a quick trip to no where."

"Quite right," I swallowed the rush of relief, "And I was here to see the doctor; I was going to walk back to Baker Street with him when he's done. I heard there was a bit of a ruckus earlier…?"

"Tha' was Bobby," Tommy rolled his unusual eyes and led the way to the rickety shed that my Irregulars were apparently using as a temporary sanctuary. It was weather proof, despite its decrepit appearance, though I knew it was not being used to sleep in at the moment as Wiggins preferred to spend the Winter in stouter quarters, "'E got hisself cut up on some glass a coupla weeks ago an' we 'ad ter send fer the doc ter stitch 'im up. The stitches 'ad ter come ou' terday, an' Bobby is afraida needles an' stuff."

Tommy didn't sound completely unconcerned by the idea himself. I wondered precisely when my friend had come to be considered to be the physician of choice for my Irregulars; though I knew he had met several of them during his tenure in Baker Street I had not been aware that he had ever ministered to them in his role of doctor.

"Wait, how did Bobby get cut?" I frowned in concern, "And why wasn't I informed?"

"Cos th' doc thrashed th' man wot did it an 'ad 'im banged up right an' proper. Yew was away," Tommy replied. I made a mental note to get further particulars from Watson, as Tommy's voice indicated that he was not at all inclined to go into details and let the young boy open the door of the hut with a cheerful greeting to the inhabitants.

"Look 'oo I foun'!" he announced, "'Allo, doc! 'Ow's yer bin?"

"Fine thank you, Tommy. How's that cough of yours?" Watson replied without looking up from his examination of a very filthy knee, "Wiggins I've told you a hundred times, if you can't find clean water then any sort of alcohol will do."

"But tha' smarts!" Wiggins protested, hanging onto the now squirming patient. The graze to the knee was red and swollen, though if it was infected the infection was in its nascent stages. The concoction Watson was using on it smelled astringent enough to kill any dirt off by that force alone, let alone through the gentle application to the wound that Watson was making.

"Having your leg cut off because a simple cut got infected would smart a great deal more," I replied before Watson could. My friend didn't even glance up from his ministrations, though he agreed with me at once, pressing his point very firmly.

"'M all be'er, doc," Tommy added from the side of the shack, slipping his comment into the conversation with an ease that spoke of familiarity with Watson's doctor persona.

Bobby was sitting against one wall, his arm held protectively close. He had tear tracks marring the grime on his cheeks, and Tommy had planted himself at the other boy's side, a sympathetic arm wrapped around him. There was a fresh bandage on the child's right arm, wrist and hand and he wore a new coat that was a size too big as well as Watson's muffler.

"Alright, Bobby?" I asked quietly, and my Irregular nodded gloomily. He hitched the injured arm closer to his body and shot my friend a rather mixed look.

"Th' doc unpicked me, Mister 'Olmes, but I've ter leave th' wrappin's on fer a bit longer," he replied quietly, "An 'e gave me a new coat from the Salvo's, an' his own muffler, righ' offn 'is own neck!"

That last was uttered in a tone of awe at such generosity. It took so little to impress the boys, something that I was keenly aware of. Watson wouldn't have thought twice about the gesture, in fact probably wished he could have done more: it was actions like this that most likely had won over my usually wary troops.

Wiggins let go of the reluctant patient and Watson started to put his things away, placing them methodically into his bag and doing the latch up with a quiet snick. He pressed several coins into the hands of Wiggins with strict instructions that all of the boys were to go to a nearby café and eat a large hot meal at once. We were promptly abandoned with whoops of glee, though Tommy diverted long enough to press an enthusiastic kiss on Watson's startled cheek.

"Mrs Hudson fed them all a few days ago, but still…" Watson sighed and shook his head, getting up with a muffled noise, "Bodies that young need regular nourishment."

I concealed my surprise that my landlady also had taken my troops under her wing, for she certainly complained loudly when they invaded her orderly domain. I nodded and fell into step beside my friend, taking his arm when the going became rough and treacherous underfoot. The ice and cold were not conducive to safe ambulation, even if a man had both legs in working order.

"What happened to Bobby, and why wasn't I told?" I asked as we cleared the worst of it, walking along pavement that had been somewhat cleared. Watson sighed and shook his head.

"As to why you weren't told, I believe you were in Portsmouth at the time, involved in that business of the murdered cats. By the time you got back the incident was over and done with, and Bobby's assailant behind bars. As to what happened, the boy was in a public house late one afternoon, probably running errands or something, when one of the patrons decided to take exception to the boy. You know what a smart mouth he has at times, this probably contributed to the situation in some way. In any event, the drunkard attacked the boy with his glass, slicing his arm and hand rather badly. I was on duty at the nearby charity hospital at the time and answered the call for assistance. The drunk was still raging when I got there and… well, I warned you about my temper, I believe. When I saw what he'd done to young Bobby… lets just say that he required the Police Surgeon's attention in the cells."

"Good," I approved, "Thank you, old chap. It's good to know that there is someone I can trust to watch the troops when I'm away."

"Looks like I've acquired another regiment," Watson agreed dryly, startling me into a chuckle of agreement. There was a note of pain to his voice though, which prompted me to hail a passing cab and bundle the man within it. Doubtless the weather was taking a turn for the worse, prompting his wounds to act up.

0o0o0o0


	16. Chapter 16

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Illness and Inconvenience

I was warned, by the very pithy note attached to the door knocker, that the house was in quarantine and all those wishing to make deliveries should take all due precautions. For a moment I was tempted to tear the note down, but realised it would be better not to have to deal with the irate physician and patient within should I contribute to the spreading of the illness.

Scarlet fever was dangerous to the elderly, in fact it was cutting a positive swathe through both the old and young of our city, so when my friend realised that our landlady had contracted the illness from her charity work he had abandoned me to an out of town case to see to her needs. He had been remorseful at the breaking of his promise to accompany me, though he had made it plain that he didn't expect me to miss him in the slightest. I perhaps reinforced this remark with a rather cavalier agreement, something that I had regretted ever since the train left the platform. Watson had no extra-ordinary talent in my field, yet I found that I valued his company to no little extent. Others asked questions at the wrong time, pressed for answers and inane conversation when I needed quiet and solitude, walked where they should not, touched what should remain undisturbed and otherwise make a pretty hash of things.

His absence had caused me no little inconvenience in the form of having to be sociable with my client, explain myself more fully than I was used to and perform a dozen other little duties that I would normally appoint to his role in our agency. After only five months of working together, I have come to rely upon him to an almost dangerous degree. My faculties and resources continue to be _more_ than enough to successfully complete my task, I need have _no_ fear that there is another man in the Empire to touch me in the field of detection, though my brother is more than a match for me in the armchair of detection, however some of the _lustre_ has left the work when there is no one there to share it. Watson understands me and my methods better than anyone else, not even Mycroft can anticipate me as quickly as my good fellow could, not any more. There is no one to share the _smaller_ triumphs with, no one to meet my quick glance, to anticipate my need and supply it without bothersome discussion and tedious explanation. There is no one to intercede for me in the graces and forms of Society that I find so tiresome.

I close the front door to the house quietly, lest I disturb the patient and her physician and climb wearily up to our shared rooms. There is an entirely unaccustomed layer of dust over the items of furniture that are heavily used and a note resting on my chair from Watson. The handwriting spoke of a man much pressed and lacking his usual ration of sleep. I can faintly smell the medicines he has been handling and there is a crease in the paper from where he balanced it on a smaller than normal writing surface – probably something in Mrs Hudson's rooms where he balanced paper and pencil to scribble this missive in a spare moment.

_Welcome back, old chap. I assume the case went well, though you are doubtless tired from your travels. Mrs Hudson is improving, though I will not be entirely comfortable until she throws off the last of the illness and can be sent to her sister in the country to recuperate._

_No doubt you've deduced from the state of our rooms that I've sent the maid away, and not spent any time up here while our landlady has been laid so low. We've got only the barest essentials on hand, so I would advise you to wash up and go out to get a decent meal before you retire for the evening. My cooking is all well and good for the sickroom or camp life, for a gentleman of __your__ tastes it is not to be borne._

_Before you snort and dismiss the idea I will remind you that I am quite worn out and in no shape to be worrying about the two of you. Mrs Hudson cannot take care of herself without my help, so you must instead. I know you'll be a kind chap and set my mind to ease just this once._

_I shall probably see you on the morrow, as there is to be a delivery from the local grocers and I will be on hand to see to it, as Mrs Hudson would get up and do it herself if I do not. Her dotard of a doctor – and I am a wicked person to speak ill of my former colleague in such a way, which shows how very tired I am – did not take the correct precautions and has been carried off by this epidemic, along with several of his poor patients. From the note that Stamford sent it seems that several of them should not have died, which indicated some degree of malpractice on his part. He is with his Maker now, and hopefully at peace, so we'll say no more on the subject._

_Do__ have some dinner, my dear chap._

_Watson_

The note was more prone to rambling than usual, which was another indicator of his tiredness. I sighed, folded it into my pocketbook and went to brush the travel dust from my suit. I would follow his thinly disguised orders just this once, so as to avoid disturbing his concentration on our landlady and her health. After all, without Mrs Hudson I would be forced to seek new accommodation, and I would never be able to find another place that suited so well as Baker Street.

Still, it was a dashed inconvenience: I had been anticipating talking the case over with him this evening – now that would have to wait.

0o0o0o0


	17. Chapter 17

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Adventures in Filing

"Watson! Where on earth have you put it?" I roared as Watson appeared in the doorway, medical bag in hand, a weary look on his face that changed rapidly to surprise and then disgust.

"Put what, Holmes? And was it necessary to tear apart our rooms?" his voice reflected his physical state and I paused for a moment to take a better look at him. His new practice in Paddington was flourishing under his dedicated efforts; he'd also been afoot a great deal today tending to various patients, probably during his lunch hour, though he'd taken a cab to get home. The fact that once more he had not eaten lunch probably accounted for his unexpected ill humour.

"The file on the Westgate smuggling ring. I think they're trying to restart in another part of the city, but I cannot find the file!" I replied somewhat testily, "And if you didn't insist on hiding things in the most _obscure_ places I wouldn't have to tear the rooms apart. Why you and Mrs Hudson cannot leave my things be…"

"Because if we did leave them be, we never would find the carpet, not to mention several large items of furniture. You will not allow me to walk upon your files…"

He was navigating the room carefully as he spoke, avoiding said files on his way to his desk, which had become something of a repository in the course of my search. He put his bag firmly atop the mess and turned to give me a flat look that spoke of his weariness.

"Of course I wouldn't!" I exclaimed in horror, "Would you let me walk on your _patients'_ files?"

"I don't fling them about on the floor, old man," he retorted evenly. I answered that comment with an injured sniff and watched with interest as he walked to the cabinet I had been rifling for the past hour, moved only _one_ file and held out the folder that had certainly not been there ten minutes ago.

"At last!" I exclaimed and took it eagerly, giving him a quick smile and tearing quickly through the contents. I got an exasperated snort in return and absently tracked his footsteps as he returned to his desk, putting his bag beneath it and then sinking into his chair – the only item of furniture not covered in files by virtue of the tea service I had placed upon it. Watson placed that on the floor with a grunt, then leaned back and closed his eyes. I disliked the slight lines of pain that pulled at his eyes, a sure sign that his wounds were protesting his daily exertions. As the weather of late had been that of a calm and warm spring – a rare miracle in and of itself – it was no feat to deduce that he had been working harder than the old wounds would allow. It was his worst fault – he would be patient acceptance itself with the limitations of any other mans body; with his own he was impatient and intolerant.

"You're tired," I accused, "And you haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Nor have you if the state of this tea tray is anything to go by," he retorted without moving, "Men who live in glass houses should not throw stones."

"You're always in a disputatious mood when you're hungry," I sniffed, "There's a bowl of apples on the sideboard."

"If I could find the sideboard I'd have one," his tone was dry enough to wilt my aspidistra. I clucked under my breath in disapproval and fetched one for him, tossing it across the room with a warning. His catch was as accurate as ever and he bit into the fruit with a low moan. I made a mental note to have Mrs Hudson send a packed lunch along with the man from now on – one that could be eaten afoot if necessary – and perched on the back of the couch, comparing the file in my hands to the data at hand. Watson had done his usual excellent job with the agony columns, annotating the few that linked into the gossip about town. He was almost as well informed as Langdale Pike, though the two of them did not get along well at all. Pike, poor chap, had shown a bit more glee than Watson approved of when discussing a particularly delicious piece of gossip and had been treated to a slightly, though rigidly polite, cool shoulder ever since.

Mrs Hudson's familiar footsteps sounded upon the stairs and I bit back a groan. Watson's cruel chuckle earned him a strong glare, to which he replied with a bite of his apple and a raised eyebrow. There was not enough time to hide the mess, nor could I lock the door and pretend we weren't in – she had doubtless spoken to Watson when he entered, as she made an especial effort to greet him of an evening. His devoted nursing of her through the scarlet fever epidemic had drawn them closer together – even I had gained favour in her eyes with the few small errands I had run for my friend whilst he was otherwise occupied.

That favour was sorely tested when she opened the door and saw the state of our rooms.

"Mr Holmes!" she threw her hands up in dismay and fixed me with an uncomfortably direct glare, "For heavens sake!"

"Mrs Hudson, I'll help get it cleared away," Watson offered, pushing up tiredly from his chair and resting a hand on the back of it. She put her hands on her hips and glared at my friend with no little ire. Underneath that it was apparent that she too was dissatisfied with his worn condition, something that I approved of. The man didn't take proper care of himself and as I would never find such an able and intelligent assistant in my work, not to mention any other who would tolerate me long enough to befriend me, it was in my best interest to see that he was hale and fit.

"You sir, have just volunteered to escort me to dinner for the evening," she informed him, unexpectedly flouting several social rules in one simple sentence, "While Mr Holmes puts this room back to rights."

"He will? I have?" Watson asked weakly, shooting me an alarmed look. I snorted in laughter. It would do the man good to get out for a while on an outing that was unconnected to the needs of a patient. Our landlady would take good care of him and have him back at a decent hour while I …

"Wait… you don't mean to leave me to this mess!" I protested as Watson stepped carefully back across the room, his alarm replaced with resolve, no doubt due to my ill-timed laughter.

"We do," they chorused firmly, and shut the door behind them. I sank down onto the back of the settee with a huff of dismay, taking in the state of disarray in our rooms for the first time.

I wondered if it would simply be easier to set the place afire and start again elsewhere.

0o0o0o0


	18. Chapter 18

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Disputation and Resolution – part one

"Holmes?" Watson's strong hand rested on my shoulder for a moment and I shifted on the settee where I had collapsed after restoring the room to rights. It was later than I had expected him to return, as I was sure I had heard the hall clock strike eleven a little while ago, and I made a mental note to have words with Mrs Hudson for keeping him out so late. The man needed his rest after all.

"There you are, you wretch," I muttered, opening an eye to glare at him, "Of all the underhanded… abandoning me to that mess was not a friendly act at all, Watson. You're lucky I didn't resort to arson."

He chuckled warmly, accepting my teasing with the warm humour it had been intended and I slapped at his arm, making light contact as he moved away whilst I sat up, still half asleep. He had sent me dinner, couriered from the restaurant down the street to the flat by two of the Irregulars who had excitedly informed me that they had also a goodly selection to share with their mates as well.

"Abusing the help, Mr Holmes?" an unexpected voice intruded and I woke up at once, blinking as the words sunk into my consciousness along with the identity of the speaker.

Inspector Gregson did not often call upon us at Baker Street, and certainly not so late in the evening. That was more in Lestrade's style, as the shorter Inspector seemed to have made himself quite at home in our company. Gregson had always preferred to maintain a distance between us, no doubt thinking that his professional reputation would be sullied by calling in an outsider from time to time.

Watson did not like Gregson. I had never been able to ascertain why, my friend was too much a gentleman to abuse another behind his back and too professional to do so to Gregson's face. I had made note of the fact, ensured that the two were never forced to work in close proximity and was biding my time and gathering evidence in the meantime. I had just been supplied with a vital clue.

That Gregson felt sufficiently secure in his standing to make such a comment showed that he was at least comfortable in my presence. From Lestrade that comment would have been tinged with humour and an aside to the so called 'help' that friend Watson would respond to in a similar vein. From Gregson the comment was light enough in tone, however… I frowned and looked over at Watson, who had withdrawn to his usual chair. There was a slightly guarded expression to his face; something lurked in his eyes that…

I felt a sensation akin to being doused in ice water. Gregson was not entirely jesting. He truly saw Watson as something of a servant to me, as a lesser man! Instantly my temper was aroused and I leapt from the couch, my face colouring furiously as I glared at the Inspector with all the ire in my soul.

"How dare you!" I breathed, not trusting my voice, "How dare you make such a comment, in the mans own home!"

"Mr Holmes," Gregson's expression was astonished, which was unacceptable, "I'm sure I meant no harm…"

"I'm sure you did!" I shouted, "In fact I think it best that you keep your views and scandalous comments to yourself in the future! There is the door, don't allow it to slam on your way out!"

"Holmes," Watson interceded, laying a hand on my arm, "It's alright dear chap…"

"No it is not! That he would think such things of you... that he would speak of you in such a way!" I was barely aware of the sitting room door shutting behind Gregson as he made a hurried escape, "It's intolerable!"

"You'll disturb Mrs Hudson," Watson said mildly, his hand still resting upon my arm. I swallowed a vexed shout and stood still, breathing heavily in consternation. Watson stood quietly with me, his warm eyes searching me for some sign. I don't know what it was, but eventually he used his grip on my arm to steer me into my habitual chair. I received the glass of brandy he handed me with a wordless snarl and only the knowledge that it was a particularly fine brand stopped me from throwing it across the room in temper. Watson sat in his own chair, sipping his own glass quietly and smoking a cigar. The windows were still open in deference to the early summer heat, allowing a slight breeze to carry the faint sound of Baker Street at midnight to my ears.

"How long has he been treating you such?" I demanded in a low voice, "And why didn't you tell me?"

"As to how long, I cannot be entirely sure," Watson sighed, tapping ash into a nearby saucer, "I became aware of it some time ago, but dismissed it as my being over sensitive to the men of the Yard. You know that there are a few who dislike your involvement in their work that dislike occasionally extends to me. As for not telling you… we cannot afford to be in disputation with the Yard. Their legal authority and resources are essential to your practice. To cut them off over such a trifle…"

"A trifle!" I barked angrily, making him jump, "My dear Watson, this agency is a partnership of equals. If they cannot accept my partner… then we will indeed forge ahead without them."

"Holmes…" Watson groaned, "Not over my reputation, old chap."

"And how is it that you did not correct my behaviour?" another thought occurred to me and I fixed him with a glare, "I was not aware that I was treating you as a servant… why did you not correct me, as you have on other matters?"

This was as close as I would ever come to acknowledging and thanking him for all the times he had prevented me from making a social blunder, losing a client through a tactless remark and a myriad of other acts that he performed for me, out of what I had thought was friendship. Had I been mistaken and somehow subjugated one of the best men I had ever known?

"Because you idiot, you don't!" Watson's sharp tone broke my train of thought most effectively. I gaped at him as he positively tossed his empty glass onto the small table by his chair and leaned forward to fix me with an irate glare, the likes of which I rarely received from him. It seemed that the bull pup was taking advantage of the slack in its leash.

"Do you think me such a spineless fool that I would allow myself to become so thoroughly cowed by your masterful nature thus leading me to enter into a sort of unpaid servitude?" the sharp words were appalling in their nature, but he gave me no respite, "Your question is an insult to us both, and to our friendship!"

"My dearest fellow…"

"No!" he interrupted what was doubtless going to be a rather pathetic attempt at placating him, something that I was woefully inept at, "I won't have it! I will not have you second guessing the friendship that we share, nor the work we have done together. While I freely acknowledge that my contributions to the art you ply are minimal at best, I cannot deny that I have thoroughly enjoyed those cases you allow me to assist you with. We have embarked on a very odd path together, Holmes, and I for one do not regret a minute of it!"

I gaped at him in mute silence, thoroughly unsettled. To hear such a statement from my dearest friend, a vindication of our unorthodox and mutual work was something that I would cherish for however long I was upon this earth. He was slumped back in his own chair, doubtless appalled at his own emotional outburst, probably awaiting my own cynical reaction to it. Indeed, my first instinct was to disparage his sentimental words, so uncomfortable was I with the topic. Something stayed my tongue though, a fortunate whim of a long dormant conscience, forcing me to think for a moment more before replying.

"Nor do I," the comment reached him and he offered me a warm look, the temper flush slowly draining from his cheeks. It was a heartening sign and I offered him a quick smile in reply, desiring to see him returned to the good humour we had been blessed with for a few moments upon his return.

"Except, of course, when you leave me to deal with the filing alone," I added after a long and carefully judged moment and was rewarded when he burst into startled laughter. I leant back in my chair with a smirk, pleased.

0o0o0o0


	19. Chapter 19

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Disputation and Resolution – part two

We did not see anyone from the Yard for a full week after Gregson's late night call. I never did learn which case he was attempting to engage me for, nor did I care to learn. Watson was adamant in his view that we needed the authority of the Yard backing us, I was adamant that I would have nothing to do with them until he confessed how widely spread Gregson's views were. He was just as adamant that there was no conspiracy and that Gregson's views were not widespread, but could not come up with a compelling argument to support that assertion, which led me to believe that he was downplaying the issue.

In short, we were at a stalemate on the issue.

Mrs Hudson had realised that there was something wrong, as our behaviour was hardly normal, but had reserved judgement on the matter until tempers exploded or property was damaged. I was also holding her in reserve – she would certainly be more than able to compel Watson to confess all in a heartbeat if she knew how he had been treated by the Yard. Mrs Hudson was as appreciative as I of our fellow resident at Baker Street. If his prideful stubbornness continued I would have no other recourse than to tap the ultimate decider in this little dispute.

As the summer weather continued fine we were to attend an open air concert this evening. The program held points of interest for the both of us, and I was desirous of spending some time with my friend unconnected to our mutual agency, thus untainted by the current dispute. He had sent a note stating that he would be half an hour later at his surgery, which meant we would be leaving quickly to make it on time, instead of strolling there at a leisurely pace, and I was awaiting his return at the window. I was also smoking and honing my skills on the passer-by below, so I was not at all unoccupied when Lestrade strode into my view from one side of the street and Watson alighted from a cab a few feet away from him.

"Hallo Watson!" Lestrade's voice was cheerful and carried to me clearly despite the sound of the traffic, "You're late tonight!"

"Broken arm at the railway," Watson replied, though the plaster on his sleeve and the soot on his suit was a clear indicator of that. Lestrade didn't have the knack for trifles that I did, however, "How are you, Lestrade?"

"Right as rain, doctor, that cut you sewed up for me last week is coming along nicely," Lestrade shook hands with my friend and they turned towards my front door. I could see clearly that Watson was quite happy to see the shorter man, completely at his ease with the Yarder despite Gregson's vile attitude towards him. Perhaps things were not as bad as I had feared.

"Good, good," Watson was saying as they crossed, "Are you here on a case?"

"I am, if he's not engaged," Lestrade apparently noticed the trepidation in Watson's tone, "Is he too busy?"

"No, he has no cases," Watson sighed, pausing on the front step, "Just... he's in rather a mood with the Yard at the moment. Your Inspector Gregson paid us a visit last week and … well, let's just say that as a result Holmes is adamant he won't work with the Yard any longer."

"Let me guess, he finally noticed Gregson's snobbery," Lestrade sighed, "Well, I can't say I'm sorry. Someone needed to set the man straight, and as I can't…"

"Holmes can't afford to be in disputation with the Yard, Lestrade," my dear Watson shook his head, "He's convinced there's some sort of widespread conspiracy against me at the Yard, and that I am too cowed to speak of it…"

Lestrade interrupted by bursting into laughter, having to steady himself on Watson's' arm. I was pleased to see that my friend was also chuckling in reaction to the hilarity, a sure sign that he had not taken offence when the charges were dismissed so lightly. They garnered several looks from people on their way home, but paid it no mind, or more likely did not notice.

"Oh dear," Lestrade made an effort to regain his composure, "Too cowed to speak up… I can still feel my ears ringing from the other week when you treated those two constables to a lecture about moving casualties without injuring them further. And Inspector Bradstreet will not soon forget your lecture on the importance of checking behind the doors of any room you enter on a raid. If anyone is cowed, Doctor, it's us!"

"Balderdash," Watson coloured, causing me no little amusement. So the dear chap had established something of a rapport with the Yard, cleverly using his role as a member of the healing profession to do so. This explained his difficulty in explaining matters clearly to me. Watson was often the one I sent to collaborate with the official forces, acting as a bridge between us so as to avoid the inevitable friction that occurred when I was faced with bureaucracy in all its forms. That he had built a relationship with the men that sometimes consulted us outside of that role was further proof of his importance to my work. Even should I manage to alienate several people at the Yard, and right now there was one in particular that would be no loss in my limited social circles, Watson would have an egress in his own right. Explaining all of this to me would involve pointing out my social inadequacies, something that would have been quite ungentlmanly of him.

"Hallo Watson!" I called down, making a quick decision and taking some mean delight in seeing both men jump, "You're late for the concert! Or is the presence of the good Lestrade an indicator that we will be missing it? Come in, man, don't linger on the doorstep, it's untidy!"

I didn't wait for them to come in, going to the sitting room door and throwing it open to meet them at the top of the stairs. For Watson's sake I would resume my work with the Yard, though I would be watching the men in its employ very closely from here on in.

0o0o0o0


	20. Chapter 20

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Considerations for Publication

Lestrade reeked of fish, though Watson's odour was fair to rival him. Both men were drenched, mud splattered and staggering from the force of the alcohol we had poured down their throats in an effort to kill off any illnesses they had been exposed to in the murky waters of the Thames. Though they were dripping wet they were also slightly scorched around the edges and had Watson been in any fit state he would have been fussing over the small burns upon my arm as we staggered into the sitting room and collapsed onto the furniture.

I insisted on spreading newspapers for them to sit upon first, though. Mrs Hudson would be appalled at the sad state of our clothes as it was, we didn't need to add to the calamity by besmirching her furniture as well.

"Well now, that was _quite_ an interesting night," Watson stated with all the air of one trying very hard to appear sober. He didn't quite manage it though, the dear chap was leaning a smidgeon too far to the left to pull it off. The slightly unfocussed gaze didn't help either.

"Quite," I agreed with a small smirk, downing a brandy before pouring three more on the theory that they couldn't get much drunker and passing the glasses around. As I had not eaten for some time the brandy caused my head to swim quite alarmingly for a moment and I resolved to sip the next few instead of swigging them down.

In an effort to stave off the worst effects I retrieved a piece of fruit from Mrs Hudson's ever well stocked bowl. Watson made a gesture that indicated he would also appreciate a piece, though I judged him too inebriated to be able to manage his favourite. I sighed and tossed an apple to Lestrade, who dropped it onto the cushions between them with a confused look. Watson swallowed a laugh and accepted the segments of peeled orange that I was holding out to him.

"Cheers, gentlemen," Lestrade toasted us; "To the maddest amateurs I have ever met. You get the results, but by god I wouldn't want to be in charge of your laundry!"

Watson sniggered and clinked his glass with Lestrade's before taking a mouthful and leaning back with a blissful expression on his face. I had never liked the taste of brandy and orange, however I supposed that a man in Watson's condition would not be in any state to discriminate.

"Much better than that swill the Thames Division gave us," he sighed, "I do detest potato vodka."

"That wasn't potato vodka," Lestrade replied with a snort, "I'll tell you what it was when you're sober, doctor."

"Thank you," Watson nodded sombrely and I snorted into my glass. It was empty again so I got up to refill it, bringing the decanter back to save the trouble next time. Watson swallowed the last of his orange segments and started on Lestrade's discarded apple.

"I've got to say, gentlemen, that you do attract the oddest of cases. Only last month we were chasing after you through the canals, the month before that it was the pigs and the smugglers, the month before _that_ it was that chap and his trained squirrels… tell me, do you advertise?" Lestrade accepted another glass with a cheerful nod as Watson almost giggled.

"Not as such," he replied drawing himself up, his moustache quivering, "Holmes' clients are mainly through word of mouth."

"I don't think that advertising would be wise – can you imagine the havoc that would ensue?" I asked whimsically and the men on the couch shuddered at the thought. We saw enough _outré_ cases in Baker Street without asking for trouble. Actively advertising for it could well bring about the End of Days spoken of in the book of Revelations.

"Still, you should write some of this up, Watson. You'd make a fortune," Lestrade giggled into his glass, "No one would possibly believe that you were serious!"

"Actually, I have," Watson revealed with the air of a man telling a deep dark secret, "Though I wrote it more as a caricature of us all than as a serious business."

"No," Lestrade hooted, "I'd pay to read that!"

Watson laughed, downed the last of his drink and handed me the glass for a refill while he staggered to his feet and wove across the empty carpet to his desk. He returned with a folder of loose papers and handed it to me before removing his sodden coat and dropping it onto the hearth, accepting his glass back and collapsing onto the now sopping newspapers with a happy sigh.

Inside the folder was a series of pages that outlined the early days we had spent together in Baker Street and the Jefferson Hope case. Due to the 'official' interest in the papers the sitting room may shortly have been converted into a battle field had we not had a greater amount of respect for the author currently slumped on the settee. In deference to my Watson, we devised a system whereby I read the first page and then passed it on to Lestrade, who was not as quick a reader as I. Watson's style was excellent, his rich observations highly amusing and his portrayal of us all so humorous that I snorted with laughter several times. It was odd to read of a time when we did not know each other so well that misunderstandings were rife.

Lestrade was also highly entertained by the whole matter. The evening ended with universal agreement that the account must be published at all costs and Watson bundled the notes up into an envelope and dropped them into the post box in the hall quite cheerfully. He had a friend with contacts in the publishing industry who had apparently offered to publish other works for my friend.

Between the three of us we made a bed on the settee for Lestrade and then I retired to my own room to get out of my filthy clothes and collapse into my welcoming bed. I didn't quite sleep until I heard Watson's footsteps cease.

Our heads did not appreciate the scolding of Mrs Hudson the next morning, over the state of her carpet, the state of the doctor that was asleep upon said carpet – he had evidently decided not to risk the stairs – the state of the inspector on her settee or the large quantity of soaked newspaper piled by the hearth, the sitting room door and for some reason, the head of the main stairs.

The matter of the post entirely slipped my mind until the next months issue of _The Strand_ came out. By then it was too late.

0o0o0o0

AN - I always thought that Holmes would have to have given his approval of the stories before Watson started publishing, and I couldn't see Lestrade being happy with the description of 'rat faced' unless he was in his cups, so that's my take on how the Strand got ahold of Watson's stories.


	21. Chapter 21

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

The Proceeds of Reputation

"I've heard more of your work of late," Mycroft murmured as he moved his bishop, "That doctors scribbles seem to have stirred up quite the hornets nest."

"They have certainly spread news of my profession further afield," I replied languidly, leaning back and observing the board; I anticipated check in four moves. Even though I had not expected it, my Watson's scribblings had enjoyed popularity with a wide range of readers scattered all over our fair aisle. The Holmes name had never truly enjoyed any degree of notoriety, which was precisely how my elder brother preferred things and yet it seemed that Watson was determined to change that. Mycroft had already lost the game, though he was yet to concede the fact.

"I cannot say I approve," he took a sip of his port; the firelight playing over his massive girth as he also leaned back. The Strangers Room was well appointed and comfortable enough, though it didn't hold a candle to Baker Street. Watson was not waiting there for me tonight; instead he was spending time in the country with that former army colleague of his. My poor friend was recovering from yet another unfortunately timed illness, so the lonely hearth of my rooms held no attraction at the moment. Mycroft would not allow me to breach the orderly existence of his flat of course, probably expecting that I would put some small item out of its customary alignment, thus bringing his orderly world to a screeching halt.

"It amuses him to do so," I replied with a small frown, "I thought you liked him. You said that he was an amiable enough chap when you met him last month."

"Amiability is all very well and good, but he's hardly in your league, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, "And if you lose your anonymity then your usefulness in my line of work will be heavily compromised."

"You think that anyone could recognise me against that caricature?" I snorted and moved my rook, "Do not worry so, brother mine."

"You haven't told him about me, have you?" the next question revealed his purpose for breaching the topic and I sighed, folding my arms and fixing my brother with a disappointed gaze. His wariness was entirely understandable as he did not know Watson as I did. Once he was more familiar with my dear friend he would understand that Watson could be trusted with the very darkest of the Empires secrets.

"Of course not," I replied, "And before you take that as a sign that the man is not trustworthy, allow me to assure you that it was not a factor in my consideration at all. I kept your secret for his sake, Mycroft, not yours. I have no wish to see my partner locked up in an obscure cell because you have decided he is a security risk."

"See that you remain silent on the subject," Mycroft ordered and tipped his King over with a flabby finger, "Or you will find yourself short one biographer."

His words made me blink – I had not considered that Watson's romantic tales were a biography of me. The thought was an uncomfortable one, as even my ego had its limits. I put it aside for later, addressing the more important part of Mycroft's speech. Only the fact that he was my brother tempered my reaction to his tone and threat.

"For _Watson's_ sake," I emphasised the point, "I shall remain silent on the subject. Though I think you should know that he is a true gentleman: he has not at all pressed me for further details about you or your work."

"Does he know you are here, tonight?" Mycroft asked and finished his port. I copied his action, sensing that the evening was coming to a close and feeling slightly uneasy about it. I had not realised quite how threatened my brother had felt in regards to the stories that were being covered in _The Strand_. Watson had already agreed to allow me to dictate which cases were to be put into print, knowing as well as I did that discretion and tact were of the utmost importance if we were to continue in our odd little business. No one would consult a detective over private matters if that detective had a reputation for indiscretion.

"He's away, recovering from a mild bout of illness at a friend's estate in the country," I replied, "Though I see no reason not to mention that I have seen you, should he ask."

Truthfully, I had seen Mycroft only twice between my moving to Baker Street and the case he had presented me with. We had never been in the habit of living in each others pockets, and the two occasions we had met had been at his direction to counteract espionage on our home soil. As they were of a highly sensitive nature I had not mentioned the cases to Watson, who at the time had been more of a stranger to me. Should Mycroft send for me now, I would probably mention it to my friend, though the particulars would not be a subject for discussion.

"Very well," Mycroft sighed, "I can only caution you against the dangers of intimate acquaintance with another. You know well my feelings on the subject."

Indeed I did. He had, after all, founded a club where social interaction with ones fellows was a cause for dismissal. Mycroft detested the society of others; my good Watson had shown me that not all society was undesirable. Time spent in the company of the right person could be a real pleasure.

How odd that after all these years I had come to break the mould that my brother had set for me in our youth.

0o0o0o0


	22. Chapter 22

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Mutiny in the Ranks

"Mrs Hudson!" the bellow was completely unexpected and so unlike my Watson that it caused me no little surprise. I jumped, and then hissed in pain. Whatever I had done to my hand this time, and it _would_ be the right one, it was most deucedly uncomfortable.

"Easy Mr 'Olmes," Wiggins said gently, going so far as to pat my shoulder gingerly, though he withdrew when I hissed at that touch as well, huddling away from the glare I aimed at him.

There was a flurry of voices downstairs and then Watson fairly pounded up the stairs and along the landing. He did not, however, burst into the room, instead he eased the door open carefully and waited for a full three seconds before stepping inside, moving quickly to our usually comfortable settee when he realised it was I seated upon it and not a chimney sweep.

"My dear chap, a thousand apologies," I got it in before he could ask what calamity had overtaken me this time, "The boys called you from your surgery against my orders."

Indeed, that was a matter that I would fully address once I could think clearly past the pain. I disliked calling Watson away from his work, as that was his main source of income. The army pension had dwindled considerably, though it had not dried up, and he refused to take any part of my fees from the cases he assisted with. We had engaged in more than one argument over the issue and he had stood firm. His sense of right and wrong was inconveniently over developed at times, to my dismay. Now was not the time to recreate that argument though, as the small part of me that was not in pain or furious that his duties to his patients had been disturbed was very eager for his healing touch.

"A good thing they did, Holmes," Watson's voice recalled my thoughts, "For if you had waited until I got home you'd have been in a very bad way indeed. How did it happen, Wiggins?"

"'E fell offa roof, doc," Wiggins reported at once, "An' 'e 'ad to catch 'isself on a drain pipe ter slow 'is fall."

Watson tutted under his breath, his hands making a thorough examination of myself, his touch so light it was barely there. He certainly didn't handle me enough to cause further pain, for which I was extremely grateful.

"My hand," I muttered, and he glanced at it cursorily before nodding once and making a gentle sound of acknowledgement. Footsteps sounded behind me, heralding the arrival of Wiggins' chief conspirator in the summoning of my friend. From the clanks and sloshes, she was carrying a tray, which Watson had no doubt requested upon his arrival. He was a remarkably clear headed man in an emergency; there were those that argued his medical and military training accounted for the skill but I had observed the best in both fields go to pieces when faced with something outside their area of expertise. Nothing fazed my dear friend for very long. He could countenance the rudest shocks and most abrupt changes of direction in a case with the calmest and steadiest of airs. Even Lestrade, with his many years of experience on the beat and as an Inspector, could not match my Watson's steadfast nature.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson," my personal physician was clearly in evidence as she came into sight, "Put it on the table there, please. If I could further trouble you to get his nightshirt and dressing gown for me…"

"Not needed!" I protested with a gasp as I turned my head, but it appeared that in this situation my Watson clearly outranked me as our landlady nodded and went to do his bidding. The best glare that I could summon glanced off her starched skirts as if they were armour and she sailed into my room with all the grace of a galleon under full canvas. From the disapproving tut that floated from the open door it was apparent that she did not approve of the state of it.

I, however, had other concerns to deal with. The moment she was out of sight Watson turned and gripped my arm firmly.

"On the count of three," he warned me, but before I could deduce what he was about or summon the words to stay his actions for a moment he had counted and twisted my arm to a hideous accompaniment of creaking bones. The pain forced a scream from my throat, short and quickly stifled, but there none the less. For a moment the only solid thing in the universe was my Watson's shoulder and hands, holding me gently in place, and the only sound was his voice, murmuring comfort to me.

I was jostled for a moment, to which I responded with a faint growl of protest whilst clutching tightly to my anchor and then all was still and peaceful. The pain was slowly receding, a fact which encouraged me to take a slightly deeper and slower breath and push my sphere of awareness beyond Watson's comforting presence. Wiggins was gone, the light was fading outside and Mrs Hudson was seated nearby, concern writ on her face. My faithful Watson was perched on our ottoman, holding me against his shoulder and bracing my injured arm.

"Forgive me, dear chap," I murmured, realising that my entire weight was resting upon him and yet unable to summon the strength to pull myself back.

"Not at all, Holmes," Watson replied, "When you are ready we will bed you down, but for now you should rest and get your bearings. I take it you were gathering intelligence for the roofing lead thievery case?"

"Yes," I felt that to nod would be a most unpleasant experience and had to make do with my voice, which seemed a very thin and distant thing, "I was going about in the guise of a chimney sweep and slid from a roof."

"So Wiggins said," my anchor agreed patiently. He was very warm, as always, something that I had teased him about before. He said that his temper came from his hot blood; at the time I had wondered if there was more truth to that old axiom than most people credited.

"When you caught yourself on the gutter to slow the fall you dislocated your shoulder and sprained your wrist," Watson informed me in a pleasant tone, "I've reduced the dislocation, and your wrist is strapped up. You'll need a sling for a while to give the joint and musculature time to heal."

"I hate slings," I grouched into his collar, "They're a torture to me."

"Doubtless you will be a torture to all of us whilst confined in one, but I must insist dear chap. If you don't allow the damage time to rest and heal you may never regain your mastery at the violin."

It was a serious warning indeed and quite likely the only one that I would consider heeding. Apparently aware of my intention to stand before I was, Watson took a deep breath and pushed up from his seat on the ottoman, bringing me with him steadily. Mrs Hudson stepped forward and caught me around the waist and between the two of them I was shepherded into my room, tucked into bed and medicated with a dose of morphine for the night.

I caught a flash of sorrow when my dear friend caught sight of the older needle marks but the good fellow said nothing, simply sighing and rearranging my sleeve. The drug took me, swallowing my words of explanation or excuse.

0o0o0o0


	23. Chapter 23

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Further Perils of Society

As soon as the duchess cleared hearing range I gave vent to the small noise of irritation that had been crowded in my throat, earning a reproving glance from my dear friend and a discretely sympathetic pat to my arm. If this was an example of entitled gratitude I would have to think twice about accepting further work from anyone with social rank. Spending New Years Eve at a society ball in starched formals instead of the dear comfort of both my dressing gown and sitting room was a poor reward indeed. At least my Watson was with me to bear the burden, though I had been looking forward to spending the evening playing a new piece for him on my violin and ushering the New Year in with a quiet toast at midnight.

This particular brand of foolishness was a reward for a closed case, forced upon me by my client, my brother and in some small part, my partner. Said partner had quietly pointed out that word of mouth was still my most valuable advertisement and that it wouldn't do to upset the nobility by pettishly refusing their hospitality. The fact that the man at my side had more nobility in his little finger than the duchess in question only added gall to the situation.

"Do buck up, dear chap," Watson murmured quietly, "It could be worse."

"How could it _possibly_ be worse?" I asked through gritted teeth, very pleased that my tone was quiet, not an exasperated shout. Watson gifted me with that look that warned me his more pawkish side was firmly in control. I therefore braced myself accordingly.

"It could be a _masquerade_ ball," he informed me evenly, only the expression in his eyes betraying his deep amusement in the situation. I coughed on my sip of champagne and he patted my back solicitously, every inch the concerned physician.

"Heaven forbid," I finally managed to wheeze. Satisfied that I was no longer in danger my dear friend gifted me with a small smirk and turned to refresh our glasses from a passing waiter's tray.

"Admit it, you only said that in the hope that I'd choke, thus giving us an excuse to leave," I accepted my fresh glass with a small nod, sipping from it automatically. He gave me a serene look, waited until I had swallowed and then produced his next remark.

"If I was going to go to such lengths I would have added something to your drink to ensure the success of my plan," my dear friend chuckled lightly, "After all, Stamford did once mention that he thought you'd poison a friend with alkaloids simply to be able to observe their reaction."

"Fool," I shook my head. In the days that I had first known Stamford I'd _had_ no friends to poison. Though that had now changed there was no chance that I'd abuse my resident doctor in such a fashion. My experiments upon him were strictly limited to exercises in deduction and the detection of a man in disguise, "I hear his new wife is not pleased that he did not get that promotion he was looking for at St Bart's."

"No, he has not married well," Watson sighed, sympathetic fool, "I saw him at my club the other day. He inquired after you and I passed on your warmest regards."

"You didn't," I breathed, appalled at the thought. Watson gave me another small smirk and disappeared into the crowd as it swirled around us. I could not tell if the wretched man was still teasing me or not, doubtless he had deliberately chosen that precise moment to depart in an effort to keep me on my toes. The dear fellow was well aware of the boredom that assailed me at such gatherings as this and was doing his best to give me something to think about in an effort to stave that off.

Although the 'problem' he had set me took only a few minutes to solve, it took me much longer to locate him. Hiding in a crowd of hundreds when he belonged there and was not in any form of disguise was a skill that Watson had down pat. He was not dancing, though from the few comments I heard he had been for a short while, nor was he in the smoking room, though I had apparently just missed him there as well. As hunting for Watson in a crowd was the closest I ever got to mingling at a social event, I had to admit that his tactics in getting me to conform to the general expectations of society were sound.

It wasn't until I passed the elder son of the host of this particular Event that I realised he had once again managed to find company among this crowd that would interest me. The elder son was a bore; a man who took his station very lightly indeed when the mood suited him, and had further had a first class education wasted upon him, though he was for once in his life useful in pointing out to me where my dear friend had vanished to.

The family was the keeper of an elderly patriarch who took great pleasure in scandalising them at the least opportunity with his behaviour in public. To limit the damage the old man could do each public event was arranged to include a small side room where he could be accommodated with a small group of people; each of which would either not be affronted if he introduced one of his legendary unconventional ideas, or were similarly embarrassing to be seen with and therefore no loss to the greater party.

From the young bores conversation it was apparent that some 'chap with a frightful moustache' had 'insinuated' himself with 'the old bore' and was apparently attempting to incite a 'riot'. The young bore was off to find his father and a 'few of the stronger waiters' to show the 'chap' that his presence was 'undesirable in the extreme'. More than a little intrigued and wishing to prevent Watson from suffering the embarrassment of being ejected by our client's husband, I proceeded to the side room and slipped in through the open doorway, joining one of several spectators along the wall.

The middle of the room contained a range of persons, varied in both age and appearance, all seated in a hastily contrived circle of chairs and ottomans. My dear friend was there, as was the 'old bore'. They were currently engaged in a rather heated debate, including emphatic hand gestures. The entirety of the dialogue was being carried out in _Latin_, something that I had not realised my friend was able to converse easily in, let alone use to eloquently carry his point in a debate.

The spectators around the room stood in absolute silence, concentration apparent on their faces as they attempted to follow the conversation. After several moments I could tell who was capable of translating this unexpected display of mastery of a dead language, who was able to catch enough to follow along and who was a disgrace to his longsuffering Latin tutor. My own Latin was quite spotty in places, as I had not seen the value in the dead language except in the translation of medical texts.

"What on earth?" the hushed comment announced the arrival of the Duke, who proceeded to wither his heir with a very disgusted look, "A riot son? They're speaking Latin."

"You have to admit it sounds a little… heated, sir," his son riposted very weakly. The Duke shook his head and sighed, muttering something about a waste of time. The accompanying waiters were waved away and our host settled against a wall as well, his sulking son pinned to his side with a glare and a curt hand gesture. As the only available space was beside me, I was in a very good position to hear their soft voiced comments, should they make any.

"Good lord, they're arguing the latest political scandal," the Duke muttered after a moment, "Which gentleman were you attempting to have ejected?"

"That one," I didn't need to see the subtle gesture to know that my Watson had been pointed out, for the Duke made an amused noise in his throat. My dear friend's eyes were sparkling in a quite animated manner, though he was sitting quite decorously and refraining from the majority of the arm waving.

"That is Dr Watson, associate of the Mr Holmes who just completed a commission for your mother," the Duke murmured, "Its no wonder that he'd be conversant with Latin in such a manner, I hear that he graduated medicine with a first. From all accounts he is not only an able detective, but a first class physician. I know of several members of Society that consider him to be the doctor of choice in emergency situations."

"Oh," the sullen comment was weak and slightly pathetic, rather like the young bore himself, "Well, how was I to know, I wasn't here when mother kicked up her fuss."

"You should at least have had the good sense to trust that Duke Barclay knew what he was doing when he entered this debate," the boys father retorted, "Barclay would never enter into something improper, you know what he's like. Now if you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend to."

The Duke left, his son following along once he was sure he wouldn't be caught. I smiled at my oblivious friend, who was currently engaged in a quick side discussion with the man beside him in Hindoo. When Watson turned and tipped me a very pawkish nod and smirk I was forced to admit that I would never get his true limits.

The man was a _menace._

0o0o0o0


	24. Chapter 24

Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

**Observations of a Lodger**

Warm Fires of Home

The case had been exceedingly tedious. It had involved more travel than I had originally expected, taken longer to resolve than I had originally deduced and had involved more violence than I had originally anticipated.

In point of fact the case had been so far reaching that it had necessitated splitting from my Watson and keeping in touch with him only through wires and the odd advertisement in agony columns. In the last seven weeks I had not laid eyes upon the familiar face of my dear friend, nor taken my ease in his presence. While I had travelled in one guise or another, moving from the highest to the lowest echelons of society in one guise or another, my dear friend had travelled the length of England to research several facts for me, finally returning to Baker Street to co-ordinate with those in my network of informants and myself.

The pressures of the case had been enormous and the stakes were high. Three years ago I would have been unable to bring it to such a swift resolution without dangerously overspending my personal reserves of strength and nerve. Today, only the assistance of my dearest friend had allowed me to complete the case in such a short time with so little expense of myself.

The cab jostled to a halt and I took a weary breath, my eyes drinking in the welcome beacon of our front door. I had not wired my arrival to them, unsure until the very last minute that I was in fact free to bend my weary footsteps to our front step. It was early morning, yet I regretted that I had not been met by the warmth of a friendly face at the train station. The cabby took my luggage to the door and then pointedly held the doors of the hansom open for me. I struggled down from the cab, tipping him well for his troubles, which earned me the assistance of a strong hand beneath my elbow to the front door and an emphatic knock.

"Mr Holmes!" my landlady had been interrupted at her baking and looked aghast at the state of her most troublesome and least favourite lodger, "Dear me, young man, you're in a right state. Bring the bags in cabbie and leave them by the front door – I'll have a tip for you when I come back down."

"I can manage…"

"… the stairs quite well I am sure," the stern tone of a mother who would have her way and was not to be tested sat well on our landlady, making me wonder what her children were like. Her work hardened hand replaced that of the cabby and I was allowed to make free use of the support of the newel post and banister. Only three steps up Watson appeared, slinging an arm around my waist and taking more of my weight than I had thought he could manage. Mrs Hudson melted away like an ephemeral mist, but I was not concerned in the least by that as my dear friend would doubtless know where she was and what she was up to.

The settee had never felt so good beneath me, nor had any other cup of tea ever been so fragrant. The tempting shortbread on the saucer was gone in a flash and awoke hunger pains that had lain dormant for weeks. Fruit replaced it, along with more tea and was rapidly followed by a change of clothing and location.

I opened my eyes to see Watson sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, his stockinged feet propped comfortably on my mattress and one of those ubiquitous yellow-backed novels in his hands. The dear sight eased my mind more than the sleep could have and I spent some few moments observing him closely. He had been quite busy in my absence, most recently at his practice in Paddington as well as his researches for me. He had been set upon by no less than four men two days ago…

"Were you hurt?!" I fear I startled him into dropping his novel as I lurched upright and grasped for his arm. The smudges on his face were not from walking about in the polluted London air, nor the result of sitting up for endless hours caring for me without time to groom himself – I was tired, not in any danger of illness. Nor were they the product of the few shadows in my room, the late afternoon sun illuminated it perfectly.

"Good heavens, Holmes," my Watson reproached me with a single look and got up to ease me back against my pillow when my head swum, protesting my sudden exertion. He sat beside me on the bed when I tugged at his sleeve, not daring to squeeze the arm that was clearly padded with a bandage. He caught my hand in his and pressed it once, the broken skin on his knuckles speaking clearly of his defensive efforts. As his old war wounds had healed he had become much more proficient in fighting off various ruffians and toughs, a side effect of the cases that we worked on and one that gave me no little cause for worry. One day we would not be so lucky, and then what? Injury to myself I could ignore. Injury to Watson was not acceptable.

"You did give me a fright, old chap. What were you thinking shouting at a fellow like that unawares?" he scolded as he tucked my hand back across my chest and smoothed my blankets. I scowled at him, an expression that lost some impact when one was flat on ones back and being 'doctored'.

"How. Badly. Were. You. Hurt?" the clipped words positively dripped with my impatience and he sighed, ceasing his fussing.

"Only the injuries that you have already deduced," he replied, "Lestrade and I put up more of a fight than they expected."

"Lestrade? He was there too?" I frowned. Lestrade's presence made no sense at all. As far as I knew he had not had any involvement in this case; certainly my brother would not have countenanced it, "Why would Josephs' send someone against you when you were accompanied by a policeman. And for that matter, why were you accompanied by a policeman?"

"It wasn't Josephs' dear chap," Watson chuckled, "_He_ sent an assassin with a rifle and poor aim. No, the thugs that attacked us were after _Lestrade_ in connection to a case he was working among the tailors of Bond Street. I didn't get the whole story from him, but I believe it had something to do with counterfeited tweeds. He wasn't even with me in connection to his case, either. I had patched up a couple of constables the night before and Lestrade had come to speak to me after hours about it. While we were walking from my practice to a nearby pub for some dinner and ale, we were set upon by the counterfeiters. It was quite the mixed up for a few moments, but we prevailed in the end."

"You've bandaged your arm," I pointed out, "And I must infer that the bruising is more extensive than the few marks upon your face."

"Not by much," Watson assured me and stooped easily enough to pick up his book, straightening with a sigh and smoothing the bent pages. I made a remorseful face in response to his look of reproach, knowing full well how he disliked seeing his books damaged.

"I'll get Mrs Hudson to bring you up a light meal, _which you will eat_, and draw you a bath," he forgave me with the crooked smile that I had come to prefer upon his face and slid his feet into his slippers, which he'd kicked off before using my bed as a footrest.

"If you insist, Watson, and only to please you," I waved a languid hand, knowing full well that to capitulate without _some_ show of petulance would worry him needlessly. I only went along with his medical orders without protest when I was in such dire straits that I had no choice: after years spent working together, my Watson could gauge my health by the strength of my resistance to his well considered advice.

"Thank you, Holmes," once again his dry tone could have wilted any potted plant within a five foot radius, but as it was not accompanied by any sign of true ire I was not at all discomforted by it. It was a rare day indeed that I saw any evidence of his now famous 'bull pup' and even rarer that it was sicced upon me.

My bedroom door shut behind him with a quiet click and I shut my eyes, deciding that it would be as well to rest for a short while longer before rising and assisting Watson with organising the notes for this particular case. He would never be able to publish it; however we had gotten into the habit of writing each case up at its finish, the record to be used at a future date against similar cases. Those that forgot the past were doomed to repeat its mistakes…

"Wait a moment! What assassin?" I shot up in my bed.

0o0o0o0

END

0o0o0o0


End file.
